<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Frayed by luchia</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983327">The Frayed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia'>luchia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fake Time Lord Society [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>E X T R E M E L Y unreliable narrator, Enemies to antagonistic flirting to friends, Friends to lovers to enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers, Headcanon, I strongly believe in the TARDIS profanity filter, Other, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Sentient TARDIS, Started writing this before Revolution of the Daleks aired. so., Suicidal Thoughts, The Master Has Issues, Time Lord Telepathy (Doctor Who), Time Lords are the karens of the universe, that's it that's the fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:08:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>82,923</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983327</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The TARDIS recruits a rescue team for the Doctor after the Judoon take her away, and the Master <i>really</i> shouldn't go. Particularly if it includes having to hang around a freakish temporal monstrosity like Jack Harkness. Then again, what does he have to lose? He could die, sure, but that means nothing when he always (always always <i>always)</i> comes back, whether he wants to or not.</p><p>Turns out the Doctor is determined to save the Master, too. He hates every second of it. Really, he absolutely does, she's very cruel and horrible, everything's her fault, and there's nothing good about spending time with the Doctor, at all. Ever.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Harkness &amp; The Master, The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fake Time Lord Society [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Living</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic exists because I've shipped these two since Utopia came out and therefore have over a decade of thoschei relationship screaming to get through, I realized the Timeless Child actually explains a lot more than it breaks, and this Master is one of two (2) characters who would try to seduce a Cyber-thing and that means those two characters need to be BFFs.</p><p><b>TRIGGER WARNING(S):</b> <i>Suicidal thoughts, actions, ideation, etc!</i> This includes really truly <i>terrible</i> attempts at interventions/helping. There's also mental and emotional manipulation, violence, and oodles of other terrible things to do with the Timeless Child (child abuse, medical torture, etc). Mental health stuff includes actual psychosis (paranoia, flawed thinking, hallucinations), which is <i>very rarely</i> explicitly noted as happening in-fic, and catastrophic swings between severe mania (both the angry and hypersexual types) and depression (see: suicidal warnings). And overall disturbing imagery. And murder. Because it's the Master.</p><p>(additional insecurity note: it's gonna read like I just can't remember what happened earlier in this fic or completely disregarded previous events and plot points and there's no emotional/mental continuity. That's your POV character, not meeeee.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The Master isn’t dead.</p><p>He could’ve been, maybe, with the death particle. But finally being killed by some random human who rushed in and swanned about was <em> unacceptable. </em> It hadn’t even been one of the Doctor’s pets. So he leaves Gallifrey (and the Cyberium, which ripped itself out of him the moment it realized <em> oh, he’s organic, isn’t he? </em> and took a bit of the Master’s mind with it.) on its last heartbeat, back in his own TARDIS before the old man can try to take the Master with him, and then…</p><p>
  <em> What now? </em>
</p><p>Eternity yawns before him, like an unkillable predator that has the Master trapped in a corner. He stands in front of the console, still set as O’s old house in Australia because of how fondly he remembers having the Doctor running around inside and completely oblivious to the fact she could feel the floor breathing and <em> must have </em> recognized the shielding to be TARDIS technology. But she didn’t. Because she’s an idiot.</p><p>Maybe he should’ve ignored the way his killer would’ve gone from <em> her </em> to some self-important hermit, shut his eyes and let it happen, let it <em> end, </em> just stopped fighting and been fucking <em> done. </em> The death particle would've done it, surely. That was the <em> plan. </em> Even if the Doctor is an immortal ever-regenerating creature and the Master is a lab rat gone mad, they’re organic. They could die. There <em> are </em> ways, there must be some way to make everything stop.</p><p>He could go find another way, maybe.</p><p>Instead, he parks the TARDIS in a low orbit around Gallifrey and stands on his porch, a hair's breadth away from the vacuum of space, watching Gallifrey die one last time.</p><p>If he stepped off, just a short hop - no. Better to not tempt fate and end up an eternal floating not-corpse.</p><p>The Master watches Gallifrey burn, and focuses not on the pain, or the exhaustion. He focuses on the <em> rage. </em> It’s all he has left.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Spaceport 4 is a dimly lit tin can with ships packed closely on the exterior shell, like bugs swarming on space trash. The place is seedy, just like any other unregulated money-making waystation, and most of the people on board are criminals, or lost souls. Or both.</p><p>The Master makes his way to the tavern on Level 7, not quite believing what he's doing. It's a terrible idea. He <em> knows </em> it's a terrible idea. And yet. <em> And yet. </em>He's still here in the (relatively) early days of the universe, walking into the same room as a young and eager explorer. She sits at a table, looking over star charts, an empty mug near her hand.</p><p>He sits at the bar and gets a drink, and tries to ignore the strange <em> discomfort </em> in the air around him. The wrongness. It's like time itself is - well, if time was ever going to send a monster after him, it <em> would </em> be while he's trying to decide if he should pull out the “modern” Earth pistol in his pocket (it seemed appropriate) and kill Tecteun before she gets anywhere near what will become the Doctor.</p><p>You don't really have a choice, when it comes to affection towards caregivers. It’s why the Doctor, memory wipes or no, would never want him to kill Tecteun. And apparently the time vortex can't help but want to protect its precious Time Lords, no matter what, because here comes-</p><p>“Hi,” a vaguely familiar voice says next to him. The Master turns, and ah, yes, that time monster feeling makes <em> far </em> more sense when the intruder gives him a dashing smile and offers a hand. “Captain Jack Harkness.”</p><p>How many times did the Master kill him? Torture him? He stopped caring enough to count by, oh, the second month. Second week, actually. The freak clearly has no clue who he's speaking to, considering how very inviting his grin is.</p><p>Because it's <em> hilarious, </em> the Master takes the offered hand (and time <em> screams </em> at the wrongness of this monstrosity) and says with the right amount of shyness and interest, “Oh. You're a captain?”</p><p>The freak winks at him. “Why yes I am, and you are…?”</p><p>“That's my name. O.” He's not going to bother with a new one. Not for good ol' Captain Jack.</p><p>“Well! It's great to meet you, O,” the freak says, still with the smile, so the Master pulls his hand back like he's charmed and only just realized how very long the handshake was. He pauses. “Have we met before?”</p><p>The Master is completely honest when he says, “I think I’d remember that.”</p><p>It earns him a laugh, but Jack takes a breath and glances around the bar. “Look, I was brought here by a friend, and I think I was sent to find you.”</p><p>“It wasn't just <em> destiny </em> that brought you to me?” the Master asks, voice perfectly sincere in its disappointment and confusion, and he enjoys the moment of bewilderment. The Master hasn't been caught in a lie (without proof of the facts being otherwise) for 1300 years, and <em> Jack Harkness </em>isn't going to be the one to see through the mask. Still. He keeps O sincere. “Then what do you need?”</p><p>“I'm hoping you can help my friend. Because I have a feeling you know at least a little something about time travel,” the freak says, and deliberately looks down at the Master's admittedly very much not period-appropriate outfit. Hm. He <em> knew </em> he should’ve grabbed some fur and steampunk goggles on the way out.</p><p>The Master sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, dropping some of the <em> sweetness </em> off his persona. It's more like the original O, the one he planned out until he remembered the Doctor prefers her pets to be malleable humans she can teach and aren't as "cool" as her. So O became a sweet wide-eyed analyst, the Horizon Watcher, dreaming of the stars. Enraptured by her very existence.</p><p>“What seems to be the problem, then?” he asks.</p><p>Jack grimaces in a way some people might find charming. “Look. Do you know what a TARDIS is?”</p><p>Tecteun seems far more invested in scribbling notes down in a journal than listening in, which is good since TARDISes don’t exist yet. If the Master is going to walk away instead of murdering the piece of shit, he needs to do it <em> cleanly, </em> thank you, no paradoxes involved. So he looks around the tavern as if this is a grand secret and says, “Is the Doctor okay?”</p><p>And oh, how quickly the freak’s eyes light up in relief. “Come with me,” he says, and the Master obliges. There are plenty of ways to play this, after all. Easiest of which is to simply pretend he’s a version of himself pre-cybermasters. Maybe even pre-Matrix, if the Doctor is <em> extremely </em> upset. It’d be hilarious, playing out some <em> shock! </em> at her new regeneration.</p><p>The pre-Matrix version of himself, just after Missy, was...a very different version of him.</p><p>So, clearly diagnostics are in order. As they walk through the dim sweltering metal halls of Spaceport 4, the Master asks, “How long have you been here? Is the Doctor injured? What-”</p><p>“I’ll explain when we’re in the TARDIS,” the freak says.</p><p>“These questions are to avoid a catastrophic temporal paradox, Captain,” the Master says. He keeps his voice earnest, though, still more O than Master. “If we haven’t met yet, if the Doctor doesn’t know I exist, this could go very, <em> very </em> bad. I can fix a TARDIS for you but I <em> cannot </em> meet the Doctor early.”</p><p>Captain Jack does stop then, pivoting to face the Master as he says, “Whoa whoa whoa, hold on, you can <em> fix </em> a <em> TARDIS?” </em></p><p>“You really have no idea who I am, do you,” the Master says, and keeps the unholy glee off his face. Instead, he waves a hand towards their place in the universe. “The Doctor sent you <em> here, </em> to me, and you have no idea who I am.”</p><p>“It was the TARDIS that sent me here, actually,” says the freak, which makes the Master wonder if this was the TARDIS being a good sentient time creature who actually wants the Master to destroy this walking mass of <em> wrong</em>. But Jack proves that to not be correct when he lets out a breath, and confides, “The Doctor is missing, and the TARDIS is broken, and I managed to convince it to go to somewhere - or to some<em>one </em> - who could help.”</p><p>Ah.</p><p>Well.</p><p>The Master sighs, and nods, and holds out a hand towards the freak. Jack. It still gives him the heebie-jeebies to touch the thing, but the Master says, “You may call me…” Fuck it. Why not. He gives Jack a cheery smile as they shake hands. “The Frayed.”</p><p>“The Frayed,” Jack echoes, and he’s not <em> that </em> stupid, apparently, since his eyebrows rise. “As in <em> the </em> Doctor, <em> the </em> Master-”</p><p>“I’m a so-called Time Lord, yes,” the Master says, dropping his hand, and motions for Jack to keep moving.</p><p>“That’s an interesting name to choose,” Jack comments, and turns down a smaller corridor. “Naming yourself after something broken.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m <em> quite </em> broken,” he agrees, and is saved from more discussion by the appearance of a big blue box that matches absolutely nothing in the area. “You know you’re a temporal monstrosity and that might be messing with the TARDIS, right?”</p><p>Jack doesn’t seem all that upset when he nods, and pulls his key out, quickly opening the TARDIS’s doors and stepping inside. Barely a few steps inside, the TARDIS goes from glowing golden crystal to a deep, violent red-</p><p>“I’m here to <em> help, </em> idiot,” the Master snaps at her.</p><p>There’s the hiss of a pipe somewhere, but the red cools to match the lighting of a darkroom instead of a burning bright supernova.</p><p>With a sigh, the Master moves to the console, and does his best to diagnose a ship that doesn’t want anything to do with him. </p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p>Once, long ago, the Timeless Child fell off a cliff. In a blaze of brilliant gold, the Child changed, and lived again.</p><p>Only a few steps away, the Child's friend did not.</p><p>Tecteun spoke with the other parents, got past their screaming demands of <em> why your child and not ours</em>, and the explorer proposed - <em> what if I can bring your child back, too? </em></p><p>The Master doesn't show her this piece of the Matrix's ancient tale. He moves on to the experiments, the pain of being a living miracle, the loving mother who killed her child over and over again.</p><p>He avoids showing the small preserved body Tecteun used to examine effects on someone who was already dead. The corpse in a drawer. The other experiment, so dosed with the Child's genetic material that Tecteun's scans and the universe eventually labeled them the same. To a point.</p><p>It’s easy to avoid the side-trips that show the other child, the one who becomes The Frayed. A creature who can die, but is doomed to always come back to awareness eventually. Even if it's as a charred <em> thing, </em> trapped in a radioactive hellscape, melting from the inside out.</p><p>He doesn’t bring it up, doesn't even touch on it. The goal of this lesson is the Doctor's pain. Not his.</p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>Diagnosing a stubborn TARDIS is a bit like being a veterinarian dealing with a stubborn cat. The Master alternates between sweet talk and threats, constantly fighting off the bite of a zapping panel or a switch whose edges suddenly go knife-sharp.</p><p>He doesn’t know how long he spends there, just trying to figure out the problem, let alone repair it. Hours. Maybe days, considering the freak is gone when he looks up. At least the crystals are a green color now. No threat, just a sickly, upset hue.</p><p>“We both want to find her,” he says to the TARDIS, voice soft. Jack isn’t here, <em> nobody </em> is here, so he risks dropping his head onto the console. There’s no snap of a lever to his face, no reprimand for the intimacy, and the Master is so tired. He is so fucking tired. “I <em> exist </em> for her. If you think we need something else, or some <em> one </em> else, fine. Take us there.”</p><p>The green shifts into a clean, crystalline blue, and he can hear the destination inputting itself.</p><p>When the Master checks it, he’s not the least bit surprised to see it’s somewhere on Earth. 2019. It doesn’t seem to go to the Doctor's fam, though, which is interesting. And they’re practically held hostage by the whims of the TARDIS right now, so the Master doesn’t fight it when the TARDIS starts warping into time and space.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, the freak comes running in. The Master can’t help but be amused by the eye-raking he gets from Jack, now that he pulled the coat off and rolled his sleeves up. <em> Scandalous, </em> what forearms can do to someone. “I don’t know where we’re going, I’m just hoping it’ll placate the TARDIS,” he says.</p><p>“What else does it think we need to save the Doctor?” Jack asks. There’s genuine concern on his face.</p><p>“I can’t imagine needing something other than <em> me, </em> ” the Master agrees. “Cannon fodder, maybe, but you’re <em> infinite </em> cannon fodder.” He thinks. Ugh. The Master grimaces, looking up at the ceiling as a horrifying thought comes to him. “Please don’t tell me we’re getting <em> emotional support.” </em></p><p>They land.</p><p>The Master glares at the door. He takes a deep breath, does not punch the console, and puts his coat on. He’s a bit more violent with it than he intends, but violence with a <em> coat </em> is infinitely more acceptable than what he actually wants to do.</p><p>“Any idea who we’re picking up?” Jack asks.</p><p>“No. I’ve never been here before.” But at least that rules out Martha Jones. And Donna Noble, to a point. Rules out Clara Oswald, and it’s not Bristol so there’s probably no concerns about running into anyone Missy may have met. The year rules out most other people the Master has met, too. He frowns at the coordinates. “I don’t care enough about Earth to memorize places other than what I need to know.”</p><p>There’s a knock on the door, and a woman’s voice shouting, “Doctor? Doctor! Are you coming for dinner?” Scottish. Does that - it’d be Missy era. Scottish usually meant Missy era. Or maybe he just thinks that because he and the Doctor were Scottish. But they’re not knocking anymore.</p><p>Oh <em> no, </em> they have a key.</p><p>“Wow. Did you redec…” says the young ginger woman who walks in.</p><p>She stares at them.</p><p>“Hi there,” Jack says, smiling that theoretically charming smile as he walks towards the woman, already holding a hand out. “Captain Jack Harkness. Long story short, we’re from a future timeline, the TARDIS thinks you can help-”</p><p>A man in scrubs wanders through the door, looking down at his phone. “Should I put dinner in-”</p><p>“Rory, we’re talking to a Future Doctor,” Amy hisses, and shakes Jack’s hand even while she gapes at the Master.</p><p><em>"Definitely </em> not the Doctor,” the Master says, and hops onto one of the railings, perching on the top as he squints at Rory. “We’re a rescue mission for the Doctor, actually. Probably. Would you happen to be a medical something-or-other who actually knows how to deal with Time Lord physiology?”</p><p>“Um.” Rory looks around the new TARDIS. Shakes Jack’s hand, now that Amy’s done. “I guess? I’m a nurse, I’ve had to help him a few times over the years. Two hearts, multiple brain stems-”</p><p>The Master pats the TARDIS railing and gives her console a grudging nod. “Fine, I'll admit it, this stop actually made sense.”</p><p>The TARDIS lets out a smug little <em> bwee </em> noise, and for the first time since the Master came onboard, the TARDIS goes back to its usual gold-yellow hue.</p><p>“That’s the Frayed, he’s a Time Lord that <em> my </em> timeline Doctor hasn’t met yet.” Jack says, and glances over his shoulder. The Master probably isn’t supposed to hear it when Jack mutters, “Supposedly.”</p><p>“There are other Time Lords?” Amy asks, and Rory looks about ready to hyperventilate. “Oh my god, he’s not alone?”</p><p>The Master lets out a sigh, and waves the topic away. “Gallifrey was destroyed, Gallifrey was back, Gallifrey is destroyed again - it’s complicated. But <em> I’m </em>always around.”</p><p>And that certainly came out more bitter than he intended.</p><p>“Your Doctor<em> s </em> don’t know the Frayed even exists, and it <em> must </em> stay that way,” the Master says. “I imagine you can see how it could impact his past actions.”</p><p>All three of them nod.</p><p>“Question,” Rory says, even putting his hand up a little bit, like he's waiting to be called on in class. “What are we rescuing the Doctor from?”</p><p>“No clue,” the Master says, and hops back down to the floor, eyeing the newest additions intently. “But if the TARDIS sent us to nab a nurse, not to mention <em> me, </em> it’s probably not pleasant.” He pauses, and can’t help the smirk. “And, knowing the Doctor, self-inflicted. She’s currently a blonde woman, about my height, likes rainbows and hoodie coats.”</p><p>“Right. Sure. Of course he - <em> she </em> is,” Amy says. It’s not incredulity, it’s an overloaded brain. “So it’s - did you also pick up this Captain guy?”</p><p>“No, <em> I </em> picked <em> him </em> up,” Jack says, with a predictable wink that the Master meets with a not very nice smile and an exaggerated wink of his own. “The TARDIS found me, but I think a lot of that was because I was already looking for it. After it calmed down, I asked the TARDIS to take me to someone who... <em> could </em> help.”</p><p>And there’s the <em> ding ding ding </em> in Jack’s head as he realizes gasp, shock, there’s wiggle room in the request. The Master has given plenty of hints, and that not-quite-human brain of his is chugging along. Then Jack is left with a choice - voice his suspicion? Confront the Master? What if he’s <em> wrong </em> and this is just how other Time Lords are?</p><p><em> You’ve </em> <b> <em>never </em> </b> <em> met a real Time Lord, surpriiiise, </em> the Master considers telling him. But that’s a waste of time he could be spending in ways that aren’t listening to this drivel. Watching the Doctor figure him out is glorious. Watching the freak do it? Not so much.</p><p>Blah blah blah, the Master rolls his eyes and walks towards the humans, reaching into a coat pocket. “Let’s speed this up,” he says, pulls out the loaded gun he'd intended to destroy history with, and shoots Jack in the head. The sound is <em> deafening, </em> and the new humans scream - oh, hm, he actually has to dodge Amy, who grabs for the gun while the Master tries to take a moment to appreciate Jack’s body dropping to the floor. The Master puts his gun back, and pokes at the console while Rory immediately starts trying to do triage and so on. Good instincts, at least. “Calm down, he’ll get back up.”</p><p>“He’s <em> dead,” </em> Rory bites out, touchy feely tears in his eyes as he cradles the freak’s head, how precious.</p><p>“Oh no, just give it a 3, 2, 1, aaand-”</p><p>Jack gasps violently awake, head sealing itself shut. <em> “Master,” </em> he cough-chokes out.</p><p>The Master jazz hands towards Jack. “Tadaaa! Yes, it’s me. Yes, I’m still going to help her. No, this is not an opportunity I intend to take advantage of, and yes, I am <em> absolutely </em> going to murder you a few more times.” He scowls at the keyboard on the console. “You’re the only thing I <em> can </em> kill without the Doctor getting grumpy, with how you pop back up like a Tacharian fern.”</p><p>“Amy, Rory, meet the Master. He’s the murderous psycho Time Lord who wants to <em> kill </em> the Doctor,” Jack says.</p><p>The Master snorts, but doesn’t bother correcting Jack. <em>No, I want </em><b><em>her</em></b><em> to kill </em><b><em>us</em></b> either ends the discussion immediately, or makes it a very long, very boring talk. Instead, he leans against the console and says, “Don't panic, I’m about 1200 years removed from the last time I killed you. Things have changed.” He gives the humans a big sincere puppy eyes look. <em>“I’ve</em> changed.”</p><p>Of course, being a big strong man, Captain Jack Harkness dares to walk in a supposedly menacing way towards the Master. “If you so much as <em> touch </em> her…”</p><p>The TARDIS is silent, right along with the passengers.</p><p>Cute. </p><p>Cupping a hand to his own ear, the Master says, “Hm, I think I missed the part that’s supposed to actually threaten me. You’ll <em> what </em> if I touch her? Clench your jaw some more?”</p><p>“We can find out how many more regenerations you've got,” Amy says.</p><p>“See? <em> That’s </em> a much better threat,” the Master says, and points towards Amy with a grin. “Now, with the room all nice and tense, are we ready to start our rescue mission?”</p><p>“Do we have to rescue him from <em> you </em> right after?” Amy snaps.</p><p>The Master - well, he’ll just mind wipe them all at the end, so he sighs, and says, "If the TARDIS decided to pick me up, then I'm probably exactly what you need. Now. Are you done?"</p><p>"I'm not taking orders from you," Jack says.</p><p>The Master doesn't even bother looking at him when he says, "You will."</p><p>There’s angry, hushed whispering from the humans. The Master ignores it, instead checking over the TARDIS and its shoddy repairs. The Doctor’s ship is so ludicrously ancient that working on it requires less of a mechanic and more of a...well, a doctor. He has <em> never </em>encountered another TARDIS with as much personality as the Doctor's, let alone one with a vague sense of gender and a body image of Big Blue Box.</p><p>With a long whirring noise, the TARDIS inputs coordinates for somewhere that is not Earth.</p><p>"Is this the Doctor or another resource?" the Master asks her, looking intently at the destination - it’s barely within the outer rim of the Pegasus galaxy. The location is familiar, in a way that means it’s not the Master who is familiar with it. The place mattered to a previous Time Lord, someone who had unfinished business they shouted out into the Matrix, a ghost of unfulfilled ambitions.</p><p>And yet, there’s no record of the location. No name, no information beyond the coordinates. It certainly seems like a place where the Doctor might be in danger.</p><p>“What’d the TARDIS say?” Rory asks.</p><p>“She says she hates you,” the Master says, only for the TARDIS to let out a deep, dissonant huff of a noise. He rolls his eyes. “Fine. We have the Doctor’s coordinates, so grab whatever medical gear you have. Off you go!”</p><p>Rory the Useful Nurse nods, and trots out the door, leaving Jack and Amy staring the Master down. Or trying to.</p><p>“How do you know what version of the Doctor we’re saving?” Jack asks. This has clearly been bugging him for a while.</p><p>The Master lets out a bitter laugh. “Well. We’re a matched set.”</p><p>And with that thought, the exhaustion <em> slams </em> back into him, leaving the Master’s body leaning heavily against the console, eyes shut tight because why is he <em> fucking </em> bothering. Why put the effort in. The Doctor will get herself out eventually, and it’s not as if she cares.</p><p>He imagines some attempt at a grand rescue, blowing up a city to free the Doctor from a guillotine or something, and he can see the <em> look </em> in her eye. The look of someone who would rather take the guillotine than spend two breaths of time with the Master. He <em> wants </em> that hate, not disdain or apathy, never apathy. He wants passion, he wants to look in the Doctor’s eyes and know he <em> matters, </em> but does he? <em> Does he? </em></p><p>He’s never fucking mattered.</p><p>The Master slumps to the floor, and ignores the hesitant babbling of the Doctor’s abandoned pets because he knows the truth and the <em> truth </em> is why he grabs his hair. Pulls. <em> Feels something, </em> even if that’s all it is.</p><p>“Hey,” the freak says, close enough to bite, if the Master lunged at him. Close enough to stab. The Master doesn’t look at him. He shudders, keeps his eyes shut, and wishes it would all just fucking <em> end. </em> “What happened? Did I break you?”</p><p>Laughter bursts out of the Master’s lungs, heaving and harsh because this is eternity. Actual eternity. <em> This. </em> And it would only get worse if he tries to start over again, and oh, isn’t that <em> funny. </em> Hilarious.</p><p>Horrifying.</p><p>Oh, no. No, it’s not <em> Jack Harkness </em> who broke him.</p><p>The Master fights for breath through the laughter.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p>He's always been batshit crazy, with no change in sight. The Matrix cheerily let him know that yes, that'll happen when you're re-woven into being over and over again for the sake of another person who is much more important than you. Woven so often that the Matrix's memory of his most recent birth includes a Time Lord going <em> hmm </em> and a comment that maybe he's too broken to function.</p><p>And the other one in the room had frowned, and said, "The Child deserves to have their match. The last time around was difficult, don't you think? They belong together." There was so much sincere compassion as they pulled out what they call the Frayed, because he is. Preserved as best as they can, certainly, but time ravages even immortal proto-Time Lords. Every shred of compassion was for the Child. Not him. <em> Never </em>him.</p><p>"Think of it as a present!" the loom-weaver had said.</p><p>Yes, he's always been batshit crazy, but <em> this</em>, realizing his existence is nothing but a consolation prize for Gallifrey’s progenitor lab rat, is what truly breaks him. Being Missy had been <em> good, </em> she’d been trying <em> so hard </em> to be good, and then it all vanished. He was going to kill the Council and all the other Time Lords when he found his way out, for so many reasons, but this is why it's everyone and everything on Gallifrey. The Time Lords are a lie and the Master is nothing but the memory of a corpse who came back to life purely because the universe eventually thought he <em> was </em> the Child.</p><p>When the experimental corpse’s eyes opened in a blaze of gold and screaming, Tecteun had brought the Child over with a bright excited smile, and said, “Look, it’s your friend! I brought your friend back for you.”</p><p>And the Child smiled too, because the Child was so very lonely and scared and the newly resurrected not-quite-clone was the only other person they’d seen in years. They were both locked in the lab, after all. Joined together, matched for lives, one-for-one. Woven together, again and again, because that very first pair never left each other’s sides. For thousands of years, they were inseparable.</p><p>Trauma bonding does that.</p><p>They're both eternal. The Timeless Children.</p><p>The only difference is that one of them is nothing but a party favor.</p><p>-----</p><p> </p><p>"Is this normal for you?" are the next words to register in the Master's head. No mockery, no simpering concern, just a pure diagnostic inquiry from Rory the Nurse. The human is crouched next to him on the floor, alternating between glaring at Jack and watching the Master for a response.</p><p>The Master releases his tugging grip on his head, letting his fingers comb through his hair on the way out. He clears his hoarse throat to say, perfectly composed despite still being curled on the floor, "Go away, I'm fine."</p><p>"You should step back, he usually gets violent at this point," the freak says, acting like he <em> knows him. </em></p><p>The Master scoffs, but shuts his eyes again and <em> hates </em> Jack for being right. He feels the emptiness and loathing and desperate yearning to <em> give up, </em>but there's also the rage. It's always there. And it's easier to climb out of the pit he falls into if he grabs the anger, focusing on hate and fire and destruction.</p><p>It’s why Gallifrey was so satisfying, why his rapture in its destruction was all-consuming. The deeper the hole, the more bodies he needs to fill it up, and the truth had left him a chasm that was conveniently population-of-Gallifrey-sized.</p><p>But he doesn't want Jack to be right, and spite is a hell of a motivator, so the Master grits his teeth and keeps the rage inside. He feels like a bomb ticking closer and closer to zero, but it's satisfying to take a deep breath and simply pop back up onto his feet and go back to examining the TARDIS's display of information about the provided coordinates. He'll likely be able to kill someone, destroy lives and buildings and cause chaos when they get there, and then things will be <em> just fine. </em></p><p>"Alright then, are we all ready?" the Master asks. He means to sound peppy, almost doing a Doctor impression, but there's a silky strand of lethality wrapped in his voice.</p><p>Nurse Rory says, “We should have dinner first, I think.”</p><p>“I don't.”</p><p>Amy does that Glancing Meaningfully thing to the other humans, and begins, “Look, the TARDIS already gets sassy with you, do you want to risk that-”</p><p>The Master pulls the lever brutally fast, and the TARDIS flies. There’s an urgent burst of <em> finally, I’m on my way! </em> wheeling through the control room, unheard by the humans but loud enough to the Master that he rolls his eyes at the TARDIS. No point in explaining it to the humans.</p><p>“Wherever we’re going, whatever we encounter, I can take care of it and get the Doctor out myself,” the Master says. “And that <em> is </em> my goal, no matter what it takes. So try to keep up, or at least get out of my way.”</p><p><em> “Why?” </em> Jack asks. Oh, poor little anomaly, he looks ready to explode in frustration and confusion. “You tortured him, you try to <em> kill him </em>, why would you-”</p><p>“You’re what, 300 years old?” the Master asks, and <em> this </em> is how an intimidating approach is done. It’s not about looming. It’s about smooth unstoppable steps, eye contact bordering on hypnotic as he moves closer, and closer, watching the oh so dashing captain fight the urge to shrink back as the scared little bunny in his brain screams <em> predator predator predator. </em> </p><p>Height means nothing. The Master keeps Jack trapped and overwhelmed by pure raw <em> presence </em> and between them, it’s Jack who is scared. And rightly so. Because the Master wants to grab a nearby set of the Doctor’s pliers and <em> go to fucking work, </em> wants to tear him apart and see how long his heart beats with his chest ripped apart - but no, <em> no, </em> the Master lets out a shuddering breath and steps back. He looks away, and brushes a hand through his hair, tidies it just a bit.</p><p>“Time Lords are barely out of childhood at 300,” the Master says, and keeps his face impassive as he looks at Jack’s ridiculous epaulets instead. “But imagine you’d spent all of those years with the same person, and he's all you have.” He does meet Jack’s eyes, then. “Add another couple thousand years to it, and you might have a <em> sliver </em>of a concept of what our relationship is like.”</p><p>And then add more years than humans have existed as a species, for the Frayed.</p><p>Add an eternity beyond now.</p><p>Jack at least is smart enough to not move. Not until the Master steps away and turns to look at the TARDIS console, more than fine with leaving his back open for a good solid stabbing. Jack’s too much of a coward to do it.</p><p>It’s funny. He used to be <em> so scared </em> of dying. But that’s the nature of things, isn’t it? You always want what you know you can’t have.</p><p>The TARDIS lands with an unnecessary amount of noise.</p><p>He looks at the team the TARDIS chose to assemble - the freak, the nurse, whatever Amy is, and him. “Follow my lead, do what I say, don’t be stupid,” the Master tells them, and heads for the door. The Doctor’s old pets stay close, shuffling in the Master’s wake as he walks out.</p><p> </p><p>-----</p><p>They erased almost all of the Doctor’s previous memories from The Matrix, but per usual, they didn’t bother with The Frayed. The Timeless Child’s existence is wiped cleanly enough that he can only see a hazy concept of a person instead of an actual appearance. Which is, of course, how he can tell it’s them.</p><p>The Master was <em> infinitely </em> relieved to learn that no, he’s not pre-programmed to be obsessed with the Doctor. It happens quite often, purely because of who they are as people (and at some point the Master has to wonder if a fourth of Gallifrey is their descendants) but there were lives where they barely spoke to each other or acknowledged the other’s existence. Oh, the higher-ups tried to shove them together in most lives, but sometimes (admittedly, not often) it didn’t catch.</p><p>Sometimes they only mildly irritate each other in hallways during work hours and that’s the extent of their interactions for that set of 12 lifetimes.</p><p>Sometimes they’re siblings, by blood or bond.</p><p>Sometimes they’re an epic, dutiful, cuddly-sweet romance.</p><p>None of them are the same. He’s a party favor for the Doctor, but at least it’s not the same old song over and over again. He’s a mixed bag of goodies, a regenerating trail mix. How refreshing.</p><p>But his memories, <em> the Master’s </em> memories, are real. His feelings are real. Everything happened, they are who they are, he is what he is, and <em> this life </em> is the one he knows. It’s all a lie, except for them. The lie is <em> what</em>, not <em> who. </em></p><p>As far as he’s been able to tell, the only true manipulation between them was placement at the Academy. This life was a drop-and-walk, put them down somewhere and leave them to their own devices. They were both in the same city, so they went to the same Academy, and everything else was them.</p><p>When he razes Gallifrey to the ground, he wonders how many of them really <em> are </em> the Frayed's descendants. Lives that are there just because the Time Lords wanted to make the Child happy, wanted to apologize, wanted to make amends by reincarnating the Child's favorite person a few hundred times. Because that's all he is: the result of a guilty conscience, brought back over and over and over and <em> over and over- </em></p><p>If he had a choice, if he had any sort of <em> control </em> over his own existence - no. No. It was all real. It was. <em> It was. </em></p><p>When he destroyed their people, their world, he wondered how many past versions of them would be just as satisfied by it as the Master.</p><p>-----</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Refund Demand of the Judoon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sole of one of the Master’s shoes hits concrete (gravity appropriate for a small celestial body augmented with what feels like Tevorgic grav-boosters, air highly processed with the musky tang of late-5000s aero-combustors) as he steps out of the TARDIS and into the...hm. The very familiar design of the hallways, not to mention the familiar species that rises out of its chair, plasma rifle only a moment later.</p><p>No music, no laughter, no children, no <em> life </em> beyond the rhino person. The place isn’t inhabited, but isn’t a military base - there’s no intercom, no ever-present sense of <em> movement </em> to keep the troops distracted. Judoon prison, then.</p><p>He can <em> feel </em> the Doctor, her mind broadcasting somewhere beneath him.</p><p>And the TARDIS put them down in the entry lobby like good responsible visitors, too.</p><p>Easy.</p><p>The Master’s other shoe hits concrete, one single smooth stride followed by a sharp 90 degree pivot to head directly towards the receptionist. There are waiting room chairs of a wide variety for all sorts of sizes and shapes of creatures, and other guards are in the room, stepping out of cute little cubbies that probably protect them from normal people.</p><p>“Yes, it’s me, I’m here to pick up my property. Where’s my Time Lord?” the Master asks with the perfectly balanced level of irritation and exhaustion that speaks <em> intimately </em> of having one chore too many today.</p><p>There’s befuddled rhino grunting. Grips on guns tighten.</p><p>With a sigh, the Master leans against the reception desk and looks up at the rhino-ceptionist. “Look. We both know you are <em> catastrophically </em> late on this contract-” a safe assumption, what with everyone brave enough to put a contract on the Doctor being dead, “-so let’s just make this fast before I decide we need to renegotiate rates, hm?”</p><p>Rhino-ceptionist grunts a <em> hrrm, </em> which the Master loathes and wants to shove back down the creature’s throat, choke the thing on its own tongue. It must show a bit, because the <em> hrmm </em> cuts off in favor of the <em> gro-ho-vo-no </em> that means calling for a manager.</p><p>“Please. Sit,” says the Rhino-ceptionist, and motions the Master and his quickly assembling squabble of minions towards the sitting area. He can admit that the TARDIS knew what she was doing with these two, considering they sit down with no fuss, and no wide-eyed stares. At least Amy and the nurse are experienced with this.</p><p>The Rhino-ceptionist stops off to hurry the Get My Manager process along.</p><p>Taking an entire loveseat for himself, the Master stretches his arms out along the top edge and looks at the ceiling. Carved, not built. The lights are explodeable, at least.</p><p>“Gotta admit, I didn’t think this would be the approach,” Jack says.</p><p>“It won’t be if they keep us waiting,” the Master says, fingers tapping on the rigid corners of the cushions. He feels <em> twitchy, </em> a special sort of stir crazy that’s off-brand for the Master (this version, at least) and likely comes from the Doctor, meaning she’s either being kept nearby, or she’s far away and <em> very </em> distressed. His bet is on the latter. Putting a maximum security prisoner right near reception would be stupid even for the Judoon. “If I mention the concrete, the approach is changing.”</p><p>Jack is watching the Master’s fingers.</p><p>“So what <em> is </em> the current approach?” Amy asks, just quiet enough that it’s not going to get them into trouble.</p><p>He has nothing better to do while waiting, so the Master follows old instructions on How To Behave With Human Pets and explains, “We’re on a Judoon prison asteroid, and the Judoon, the rhino aliens, have to be hired. They’re self-important bounty hunters. Presumably this is all because they were hired to contain the Doctor, but hiring means money, which means contracts, and contracts always have at least two parties involved. So we’re going to alter the contract - which they'll be all for, since I doubt they want to <em> keep </em> the Doctor. She’s not exactly easy to imprison.”</p><p>“You’d know,” Jack says.</p><p>The Master grins. “We did have some good times.”</p><p>He’s saved from more reminiscing by the stomp-clomp of Judoon heading their way, and turns to see the manager. Or leader. Warden? No, not warden, he can’t feel the rigid air of I Am The Manager. The rhino in charge of rhinos, then. The Master stands up to meet her, frowning. “You’re not the Judoon I contracted out.”</p><p>“They died 1130 years ago,” the leader says, and pulls out a scanner, checking the Master to see that, yes, “You are verified as a Time Lord.”</p><p>Hilarious.</p><p>“Provide access code to prove you are the contract party,” the Judoon says, and the Rhino-ceptionist holds out a tablet with a geometric encryption matrix, hmm.</p><p>The Master frowns. “Remind me what I was going by last time?”</p><p>“You should not need that information,” the leader says, tiny eyes squinting in suspicion.</p><p>“This was over 1130 years ago, I’ve gone through at <em> least </em>6 bodies since then,” the Master says, which does seem to placate them a bit. Being a species with a legendary reputation and a special trick nobody else really understands can make people excuse quite a lot. Out-alien the aliens. The Rhino-ceptionist pulls out another tablet, this one with the image of a woman that the Master, at least, has never met.</p><p>Not in person.</p><p>But he <em> was </em> trapped in the Matrix from a slipshod bit of hacking, and the Master shuts his eyes, thinking back to who, <em> who </em> - Autor. Much of this encounter is gone, but the Master can remember that Autor (or that regeneration, at least) was a blunt, impatient woman sick of her dead end position in the Division, sick of <em> babysitting, </em> to the point that when they sent her after the Doctor, she said <em> fuck it, </em> sent someone else who actually wanted to do it (Gad? Gaz? They're not in his Matrix.), and hired the Judoon too.</p><p>Autor was a creature of discontent and ambition but no willingness to take risks. A true Time Lord, full of information and empty of any intention to do something with it, or do much of anything, period. She left Gallifrey three times in her entire existence, and disliked every single trip. Autor kept her head down and served her time, and didn’t she deserve a reward for that? Shouldn’t she get some upward movement, for crying out loud? What did they <em> want </em> from her, some sort of...of <em> mission? </em>  Taking a risk? No. Nobody in their right mind would ever take a risk. You do your job and you move forward and she stood in front of a window she doesn’t look out of, scrolling scrolling scrolling as the other entity says, “They’re starting an army.”</p><p>“An <em> army?” </em> Autor repeats, and actually bothers looking up at her coworker. He’s young. She’s old. “Are you joking? An army of Time Lords?”</p><p>The coworker shakes his head. Deket. He’s young and only here because of his sister. “No, the Gallifreyans, even Shobogans. The High Council says they’ll actually be useful this way.”</p><p>Deket has mixed feelings on that, to put it lightly. He’s never liked the Time Lord indifference to those outside the Citadel - after all, they’re the same species, aren’t they? What differences do they have other than training and access to -</p><p>“Ma-my, uh. My lord?” Amy says, and puts a hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.</p><p>He bats her hand away. “Go <em> away, </em> I just needed to think,” he says, and the human raises both eyebrows and hands, stepping back to Rory. There’s touching between them. Humany touching. The Master sighs. “A thousand years is a long time for a security code.”</p><p>But he can figure it out.</p><p>A geometric encryption matrix seems impossibly complex, to people who aren’t Time Lords. It’s like a Rubix cube of numbers and symbols, both button-pushing and cube-moving included in the combination.</p><p>It probably looks very impressive when the Master efficiently inputs the Gallifreyan equivalent of <em> 1234. </em></p><p>Time Lord arrogance is so convenient sometimes.</p><p>The tablet lets out a soft <em> po </em> noise, Judoon-speak for <em> correct, </em> and the Master hands the tablet back. “Now, I want the Doctor put in <em> my </em> custody and a refund of the payment organized for her confinement.”</p><p>“The contract states lifetime imprisonment,” the Judoon says.</p><p>The Master smiles, full of disdain, and asks, “Does it also say it’s okay for you to not meet your end of the deal for well over a millennia?”</p><p><em> Hrrrrm </em> go the angry rhinos, but don’t dispute the point. The other part of it, however...well. This <em> is </em> a business. “A refund is not possible.”</p><p>“It’s <em> very </em> possible,” the Master says, and does absolutely nothing other than say it. No psychic suggestion. Just an obnoxious customer asking for a refund. “And it’s going to happen, unless you want to talk about the <em> other </em>clauses. You don’t get paid for services never provided.”</p><p>“You do not refund a retainer fee,” the Judoon leader snarls.</p><p>“So much for the <em> honorable </em> Judoon,” the Master bites out, and <em> oh! </em> The <em> indignation </em> from every single Judoon in earshot! It’s so ridiculous. So easy. “Either give me a refund, or spend the rest of existence knowing you broke your contract. Knowing you <em> failed.” </em> </p><p>And, as expected, the Judoon leader makes a grumpy rhino noise and then says, “I will speak to my supervisor.”</p><p>“No, you’re going to give me the Doctor and you’re going to <em> give me back my money,” </em> the Master snaps.</p><p>“I will speak to my supervisor!” the Judoon shouts in his face, and gives some orders in Judoon-speak before she turns around and starts stomp-clomping her way to a back office, he assumes.</p><p>The second the Judoon are out of earshot, the Master has humans swarming him, Amy hissing out, “Is this <em> really </em> the time to pick a fight over money?”</p><p>“It is when it makes the Doctor nothing but a footnote in the Judoon’s mind,” the Master says. </p><p>What a dazzling epiphany, when Rory says, “It’s a distraction.”</p><p>“Yep. Either you’re walking away with the Doctor, or you’re walking away with the Doctor and a <em> lot </em>of money.” He smirks at them. “I love a good win-win situation, don’t you?”</p><p>Before the pets can start having opinions at him, the Rhino-ceptionist walks up and says, “Transferring the prisoner into your custody requires a Level 4 Security lockdown, and a liability waiver. Once the prisoner is transferred, any responsibility is yours.”</p><p>“You don’t get a signature on that waiver until I get my money,” the Master says, and starts walking down the hall, deeper into the prison. There are lots of rhino noises, and the humans have to jog to catch up. “Fine! Lock it all down. I’ll find her myself.”</p><p>Jack - tallest, therefore fastest - asks a bit too loudly, “And <em> how </em> are you doing that?”</p><p>“She’s broadcasting,” the Master says, and taps the side of his head. He doesn’t mention what the Doctor is broadcasting, because the freak doesn’t need to know. It’s private, that itchy hunger for freedom, a psychic wail demanding (begging for) so many things - the stars, comfort, friendship. There are no words to it, no active effort to contact someone.</p><p>He <em> could </em> say hello, maybe tell her they're on their way. Maybe try to help. Maybe warn her, or fill her in on the plan. Or just tell her to <em> shut up already. </em></p><p>Sirens start blaring, heavy clangs of locks engaging on every door they pass. The Judoon sentries rush to follow them, all fully armed and armored. Lighting goes from brutally sharp and clear to a bright strobing red.</p><p>It’s a Time Lord used to screaming with nobody around to hear it. And if nobody can hear it, why <em> not </em> scream? Why should she need to stop?</p><p>The Master takes a deep breath, resigned to his fate as he reaches the lift.</p><p>The Judoon are already waiting in the lift when the doors open. They make enough space for the Master’s crew, but it’s still tight. Still meant to intimidate them. From the tension in the humans and the way they stay fixed behind the Master, they’re succeeding.</p><p>How can the Doctor <em> stand </em> having this sort of idiocy following her around? He shakes his head, and watches the doors shut. Watches the floors pass, the number going down, down, down, until there’s a sweet little <em> ding </em> noise (guaranteeing this is not a Judoon-made asteroid) and the doors open again.</p><p>It feels like the Doctor should be shaking the entire place apart, this close to the source of the broadcast. The Master can’t restrain the <em> wince </em> when he steps out of the lift as it assaults his mind and it keeps going and <em> going </em> until someone puts a hand on his shoulder, so he immediately swats <em> that </em> away, glaring at - Rory. The nurse. Who puts his hands up, backing up a step.</p><p>There’s no need to follow the Judoon through their prison. He can home in on the Doctor the moment they’re on the same level, the hallway flashing between burning red and a pitch black deep enough that the humans stumble every time. Something (or some<em> one </em>) broke the lights recently. It doesn’t matter much, since the Master barely needs to keep his eyes open for two reasons: the Doctor’s presence, and the human who comes sprint-running their way from the opposite end of the hallway.</p><p>“Only just heard about the transfer, sorry, sorry!” the man pants, skidding to a stop next to the Doctor’s cell door. He flips the panel open, tapping frantically at what the Master assumes is yet another geometric encryption matrix. “This prisoner is controlled, I’ll get that to you after opening the door.”</p><p><em> Controlled </em> could mean so many things, 90% of which have the Master’s hands clenching with the urge to break the warden’s neck. The phrasing - it’s hard to concentrate, with the twitchiness, the psychic broadcasting source so loud and so close. But there’s something there. Get <em> that </em> to you. Like it’s physical. Something there, a concrete something.</p><p>Red, darkness, red, and in the dark the door opens with a <em> clunk </em> and a rapid hissing noise that speaks of a pneumatically powered lockdown system (stupid, considering the aero-combustors as their source of breathable air). In crimson light, the Master steps into the comparatively small cell. Tally marks line one of the walls, counting down hundreds and of days.</p><p>The Doctor obviously isn’t asleep, but is still tucked in the corner, eyes staring intently at him, flicking to the people standing behind.</p><p>“You can stop <em> screaming </em> now,” the Master bites out, and walks over with as little visible hesitation or uncertainty as possible. He does wince at the burst of <em> emotion </em> followed by her actually putting her shields up. To a point. The Doctor’s shields are up, but there’s an immediate prodding at his own, <em> let me in, let me in. </em></p><p>He’s not exactly inclined to open up, considering the amount of relief and fury and no small amount of fear the Master is dealing with at the moment because <em> why is she not moving </em>.</p><p>At this point, he can hear the trot-run of the nurse and his bag of tricks rushing past the Master. Jack is staying at the door, and Amy is only a few steps behind Rory. “Are you alright, Doctor?” Rory asks, and turns her head, immediately checking her eyes for something or other. The Master leaves him to it, busy standing and looking irritated.</p><p>“Can you speak?” Rory asks only a few moments later, and the <em> poke poke poke </em> turns more into a stabbing, like she’s going from insistent knocking on a door to trying to chop it down with an axe.</p><p>The Master grits his teeth, and walks over, crouching in front of the Doctor to look her in the eye before begrudgingly letting her in.</p><p><em> ‘They told me to stop making noise,’ </em> the Doctor says, practically <em> begs </em> . <em> ‘They told me to stay still and to stop making noise and now-’ </em></p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p>He shuts their connection down, but she must get a burst of his shock and his...<em> complex </em> feelings on the matter, to put it mildly.</p><p>Because this.</p><p>“Doctor, what happened?” Rory asks, because there’s a mass of lazily-stitched surgical scars on the Doctor’s left forearm, healed in the ugly and efficient way that only time brings.</p><p>This, the Master did not see coming.</p><p>With absolutely no fear of the Doctor or anyone else in the room, the warden returns, walking briskly across the cell towards the Master. “Sorry about the wait, here you go,” he says, in the tone of one like-minded equal to another as he holds out a simple metallic band.</p><p>The Doctor is slamming against his mind, demanding contact. Desperate.</p><p>His fingers, his <em> everything </em> shaking, the Master reaches out and takes the Doctor’s control ring.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p>He <em> can </em> die. He’s died a few times already, and over and over again, he comes back. The Master returns, every single <em> fucking </em> time.</p><p>The Frayed has been stowed away and rewoven so many times. It’s almost a kindness, when they unmake him. The confession dial breaks a Time Lord down into tattered tufts of a soul and then spins the remains, like nothing but a messy clump of wool, until they can be woven into the Matrix. Or, in <em> extreme </em> circumstances, into a loom.</p><p>It’s the only way for the Frayed to end. Even then, it’s not <em> ending </em> so much as stasis. Storage. Spun into thread so many times that it looks ready to snap, rip apart, disintegrate - and what would happen then?</p><p>The Master has died a few times. But it doesn’t stick. <em> Except it does. </em> He’s left as a broken spirit, a husk of a creature, pain and terror and desperation driving him to find a body, find <em> something, anything </em> to get him out of the hell that is undeath. Where the universe just won’t let him die.</p><p>Before he learned the truth, he thought it was just determination and brilliance. Oh yes, the Master is too <em> clever </em> to die, too <em> devious, </em> unnaturally resilient, like a Time Lord cockroach. He had been terrified of dying. He was so scared. So, so scared.</p><p>He doesn’t remember that very first death, the one he shared with the Timeless Child. He didn’t remember any of the Frayed’s other deaths either, couldn’t see any of them - and not even in the blankness of wiped memories. It’s as if the Matrix rejected their entire existence, refused to admit the <em> wrongness </em>of it. Of him.</p><p>Until it realized his plans for Gallifrey, what he would do after he got out of the Matrix. </p><p>Dying is terrifying, but he doesn’t get to <em> end. </em> It’s jumping off a bridge and being trapped in the single horrific moment before that final <em> splat </em> on the rocks beneath. The fear is all-encompassing. Nothing matters, <em> nothing, </em> beyond avoiding the next second, when there will be one burst of agony and maybe, just maybe time for a scream before it’s over.</p><p>But now, he knows that the impact is never going to happen.</p><p>He’s either alive, or trapped in that single moment of consuming terror.</p><p>(Probably.)</p><p>He misses being Missy. He misses the glorious blissful <em> silence, </em> the drums gone quiet. The Doctor’s eyes gone soft. The <em> conviction, </em> the belief that they would stand together, that their entire lives had always been leading to that moment. Missed the chance to die together. Missy was going to die with the Doctor in her arms, being told she was worth something. Feeling loved. Like two broken things that slotted together and made something whole and perfect. A matched set.</p><p>A matched <em> fucking </em> set is right.</p><p>It’s still true that they <em> are </em> the Master, and the Doctor. It’s still very true. It all happened. It’s all real. She’s real and he’s real and they’re real, this <em>thing</em> is real.</p><p>The Master and the Doctor are real, and he got <em> so close </em> as Missy. She got to <em> choose, </em> and now...</p><p>He doesn’t even know what he feels now. Too much. Not enough. Missy had filled the silence with pianos, the clack of her heels dancing across the floor, with laughter and pleading and really <em> listening, </em> in the end. It had been such a blessing. So beautiful. Even when she’d remembered the names and faces and the lack thereof of their victims, it was beautiful.</p><p>Now it’s his own pleading in his head. His own screams. It’s the Frayed, the Matrix, a thousand lives lived out and deaths leaving him blank, like the tension between notes when a song is far from over. When the song has no end.</p><p>Without the drums, he can hear his heartbeats now.</p><p>Every time he sees the Doctor, he gets to hear them break.</p><p>----</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Control Issues</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ring is warm in his hand.</p>
<p>“Think that’s all we’re transferring,” the warden says cheerily. “Sorry, but you know how it goes. This <em> is </em> a business, after all.”</p>
<p>It doesn’t weigh much at all. There’s nothing impressive about it, beyond the glint of subtle circuitry trapped within the metal.</p>
<p>“What happened to the Doctor’s arm?” Rory asks. “What did they do?”</p>
<p>“Master?” Jack calls, from the door.</p>
<p>It’s <em> so small</em>, for something that could give him so much. <em> Too much? </em> No. A ridiculous thought. There’s no such thing.</p>
<p>Still, he shivers from the potential. The things he could do. The things he would have, what they could <em> be, </em> anything and everything and he would win, truly becoming the Master. Of her. Of himself. And then, <em> everything. </em></p>
<p>“Did they torture her?” Amy asks.</p>
<p>He starts to laugh. It’s unhinged, chaotic laughter that makes him shake as he crouches to reach eye level with the Doctor. She looks...well. It’s hard to read. Certainly not happy, though.</p>
<p>“I really did come here to rescue you. I want you to know that,” the Master tells her, and slides the ring onto his index finger. It clenches down, binding itself into his skin and he feels it, he feels <em> her, </em> and no wonder the warden wasn’t wearing the ring. It’s a glacial explosion of <em> presence </em> in the back of his mind, ancient and frothing and curious and deadly. The warden probably uses it as a last resort because of how overwhelmingly vast and ancient she is, how it feels as if the wearer will be swept into the depths of her mind and drowned.</p>
<p>The Master, on the other hand, feels his eyes tearing up for no good reason.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” Amy asks, a rising note of panic in her voice. “Master?” He <em> cannot </em> look away from the Doctor. He can’t. “Jack, he’s about to start crying.”</p>
<p>“The warden doesn’t leave this room,” the Master says, somehow. The warden makes an offended noise, but the door shuts behind Jack. It’s very very <em> very </em> difficult to look away from the Doctor, up to the nurse, but he does. “How is she?”</p>
<p>Rory clears his throat and says, “Well, the number one concern is the Doctor won’t move or speak. And my very <em> not good </em> theory is that it's related to these.” He points out the scars on the Doctor’s forearm, where he’s poking and prodding. “The scars are a few months old at least, and I...I think they implanted something.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I am <em> aware,” </em> the Master says, and doesn’t even try to hide the murderous intensity. “Anything other than the implant?”</p>
<p>“Nothing past some bruises and <em> probably </em> weight loss? I don’t know what she looked like before,” Rory says. “Elevated pulse, but I think that’s probably because, well. Circumstances.” He shrugs. “Overall, I’ve patched up worse. I mean, he’s - er, <em> she’s </em> had worse.”</p>
<p>Has she, though?</p>
<p>Even the Master never did this to her. Mostly because it takes the fun out of their relationship. If he tells her to kneel, he wants the Doctor to <em> choose </em> to do it. That’s the entire point. He wants her to choose between her pets and her pride, wants her to consciously <em> decide </em> how far she’s willing to go. It’s no fun to make her break all those little rules she invents for herself if she's not the one actually breaking them.</p>
<p>He reaches out, holding the Doctor’s face in his hands.</p>
<p>The humans all make protesting noises, including the warden. Amy grabs one of his wrists and says, “Oookay, hold on there-”</p>
<p>“It’s <em>touch</em> telepathy, remember?” the Master says.</p>
<p>And all the pets make <em> ah, right, of course </em> noises. Amy releases him.</p>
<p>They can’t see the Doctor roll her eyes. She sends out a very precise and unpleasant jab towards his psychic shields.</p>
<p>“I <em> am </em> helping, Doctor,” the Master says, and is delicate about it when he presses their foreheads together. <em> ‘But of course I’m going to put a little theater into it.’ </em> The other good thing about the foreheads - they can’t see him smirk at the Doctor. <em> ‘After all, I’m an opportunist.’ </em></p>
<p>
  <em> ‘And a traitor, and a mass murderer, and-’ </em>
</p>
<p><em> ‘And truly here to help you,’ </em> the Master tells her, and pulls the Doctor into some selected recollections, brief glimpses - Jack finding him, fixing the TARDIS, an extremely abbreviated request for the TARDIS to take them wherever she wanted, picking up Rory and Amy, a brief run-through of the plan that got them in here so easily because so much of the world runs on greed. <em> ‘Now, what did the nasty warden do to you?’ </em></p>
<p>It takes a moment, with the Doctor looking suspicious, but at least she accepts the images as true. She shuts her eyes, and shares her own relevant recollections.</p>
<p>The first is her sassing a Judoon about the tally marks on her wall, and then the warden coming in and stunning her, and then waking up nauseous with new and not particularly clean stitches on her forearm. Another scene - the warden, telling her to <em> shut up. </em> Telling her <em> stop that. </em> He watches her push the limits because she’s the Doctor and that’s what she does, always <em> always </em> pushing, for days and months and <em> years, </em> and eventually, the commands reach the current state: <em> Stay still. Don't move. Stop making noise. </em></p>
<p>The Doctor doesn’t know how long she’s been trapped in this exact corner, frozen, silent. The warden and guards seem satisfied with the circumstances, because people come in and feed her, clean her, and the <em> fury </em> at it leaves the images unintentionally more in-depth. The broadcasting had originally been actively calling for help, and then it was pure screaming <em> rage </em> , and now it’s been bordering on despair but the Master is here and she wishes so desperately that she wasn’t so relieved to see him, wishes it didn’t make her happy, that it didn’t <em> hurt so much </em> when he put the ring on but why was she surprised, why had she hoped, she knows better, it’s <em> the Master, I should know better, stupid Doctor, how many times has he betrayed her- </em></p>
<p>The Doctor shuts him out, but not before he gets the emotional impact too. Pain, frustration, shame, disappointment, bitter amusement, and <em> sadness. </em> Exhausted sadness.</p>
<p>His fingers unintentionally tighten against her temples, digging in for a moment, but the humans see it. They see the Master pull away, and he lets the rage show on his own face. But not for long. He <em> breathes. </em></p>
<p>He tells Rory and Amy, “Wait in the hall. You won’t want to see this.”</p>
<p>The nurse gives him a surprisingly empathetic look. “I’m here to help. If you have to do something to get rid of the effect-”</p>
<p>“No, I’m going to brutally murder the warden,” the Master says, and ignores the warden’s squeak of, <em> You’re going to what?  </em>“You have about 80 seconds until that happens.”</p>
<p>Amy swallows, but looks the Master in the eye. “Does he deserve it?”</p>
<p><em> “Yes.” </em>The Master speaks with a level of venomous hate he barely realized he felt until right now.</p>
<p>Without another word, Amy stands up, pulls Rory with her, and walks out the door.</p>
<p>Jack, as expected, stays right where he is.</p>
<p>“Now. Doctor.” The Master pulls his coat off, and pushes on the control ring’s trigger with his thumbnail. “I’m going to put this over your head, and while it’s on your head, you can’t hear, or see, or have anything to remember. When I pull it off, every command they gave you is null and void, and this is all just another fun little adventure.”</p>
<p>When he pulls his thumbnail away from the ring, there’s a moment of blissful haze that crosses her eyes as the orders sink in.</p>
<p>He drops his coat over the Doctor’s head.</p>
<p>It’s kind of hilarious, to be honest, a lump of Doctor in the corner.</p>
<p>“Do I want to know what he did?” Jack asks. He has the warden by the shoulders.</p>
<p>“It’s <em> touch </em> telepathy, how would I know what you want,” the Master says, approaching with a disappointed frown directed towards the warden. He motions for Jack to let the man go, and look at that, Jack follows orders. Immediately. The Master doesn’t even have to <em> say </em> anything. “Did you have a difficult childhood, warden?”</p>
<p>“What?” the warden asks, and glances at Jack, who remains impassive, leaning against the wall directly next to the door. So, the Master steps closer and puts a hand on the warden’s shoulder. “Really, I don’t understand.”</p>
<p>“I asked if you had a difficult childhood. If there was some sort of traumatic experience, if there - see, the Doctor <em> will </em> be upset when I kill you, understand?” the Master emphasizes, and gestures at the lump under his purple coat. “And when she sees what’s left of you, I don’t want to lie to her. So I either say, <em> yes, there were deep-seated psychological reasons he did that to you, </em> or I say, <em> no, he was just a monster. </em> At this point, honesty is going to be really, <em> really </em> important.”</p>
<p>The warden yet again looks at Jack, and gives up, back to the Master. He’s trying to back up, towards the wall. The Master follows him, step for step. “So if I say yes, that’d be...an excuse?”</p>
<p>“No no no, it’s not an excuse, it’s a <em> reason, </em> ”the Master says, and smiles for the warden. He can’t <em> help it, </em> he laughs. “Oh, I am really looking forward to this. Killing people is easy, but when it <em> means something, </em> that’s...” The best description he can come up with is a chef’s kiss.</p>
<p>“What if I don’t answer?” the warden asks. As if this was a system he can game.</p>
<p>The Master moves his hand from the warden's shoulder to the back of the warden’s neck. “We already know disobedience doesn’t go over well in this room.”</p>
<p>It’s the way the red lights up the warden’s eyes, maybe. Or the different grip, letting him feel the stutter in the warden’s half-empty human pulse. But there’s a fear that hadn’t sunk into the warden until <em> this </em> moment. Or maybe it’s the <em> fact </em> part which his mind fought. Denial is so very powerful, after all. But there’s that acknowledgement, that final fact that everyone but he and the Doctor get to experience: <em> I’m about to die. </em></p>
<p>The Master tightens his grip on the warden’s skull, and smashes his head against the tally-marked wall, hard enough it <em> could </em> kill the man. There’s a shriek, and a <em> crack</em>, but the screams and flailing mean no, the warden's not dead, which means yes, he gets to do it again. <em> And he does. </em> The Master can hear his own laughter as he bashes the warden’s skull against the wall again and again and <em> again </em> until it looks like half the biological matter that was behind the bone is now clumped sickly against the stonework, covering the first few weeks of the Doctor’s imprisonment.</p>
<p><em> “Master!”  </em>Jack shouts at him.</p>
<p>The Master turns, and releases what’s left of the warden’s body. It drops like the heavy piece of shit it is, a bloody slumped pile of nothing that matters. Jack doesn’t say anything, so the Master rolls his eyes. “Yes, freak? What seems to be the problem?”</p>
<p>“We don’t have time for you to sit here and smash his skull into goop,” Jack says.</p>
<p>It is genuinely <em> difficult </em> for the Master to wrap his mind around this. “You’re telling me that - <em> oh, </em> you think I got caught up in the adrenaline?” the Master asks, earnest. Jack nods. “No, no no no, I have control over myself.” He pauses. “Or I <em> can. </em> If I need to. How do I look, too conspicuously covered in brains?”</p>
<p>“There’s...blood,” Jack says.</p>
<p><em> Hm, </em> the Master reaches into a pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, quickly wiping the blood off his face, and neck, and <em> starts </em> on his hands but the dominant one is completely - well, he can wipe it off. The outfit survived relatively intact, which is a pleasant surprise. He drops the handkerchief on what’s left of the warden.</p>
<p>“Right, then. Open the door and get ready for a very peppy Doctor,” the Master says, and there’s only a moment of hesitation before Jack obeys. Again. Meanwhile, the Master walks over to where the Doctor is slumped and blocks her view of the warden just a smidge before he pulls the coat off her.</p>
<p>“Ugh, my <em> legs, </em> ” the Doctor says, and stretches in a way that reminds the Master that this particular incarnation of himself is <em> very </em> attracted to her. Even worse than normal. She’s wearing a hideous baggy prison onesie and he’s tempted to throw the coat over her again for decency’s sake. “Moving feels so good, I was there for <em> ages!” </em></p>
<p>Instead, he shrugs back into his coat and sighs, holding a hand out. “This is a prison break, Doctor, not yoga.”</p>
<p><em> Just another fun little adventure, </em> the Master had commanded.</p>
<p>He did not think this through, because when the Doctor beams up at him, bright-eyed and so <em> fucking </em> happy to see him, the Master realizes that she <em> doesn’t </em> see this as a rescue, because she doesn’t see anything to be upset about. As instructed. She sees this as a deliberate trip, with deliberate attendance, just some good-natured fun gone a bit haywire.</p>
<p>When the Doctor takes his hand and he helps her stand, she doesn’t let go. She grins at him, like the world is clean and childlike and they’re wild genius rascals let loose in a universe that will never see them coming.</p>
<p>But her head turns, and then there’s another bright smile as she says, “I’m so glad you came along, Jack, it’s been so long!”</p>
<p>“It really has, Doctor,” Jack says, and there’s tears in Jack’s eyes and <em> nope. </em></p>
<p>“Alright,” the Master says, and doesn’t quite pull the Doctor towards the door, but it’s close. “Time for me to go take over the Judoon, you can go run for-”</p>
<p>“Oh, for - <em> really </em> , Master?” the Doctor motions towards the warden’s corpse with her spare hand. They’re still holding hands. She still hasn’t let go. <em> “Really?” </em></p>
<p>The Doctor is looking at his murder victim, knows he did it, and <em> continues </em> to hold the Master’s hand.</p>
<p>“Did he really deserve this?” the Doctor asks, grumpy with him.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“He was <em> very </em> mean,” the Master says.</p>
<p>And in this ludicrous situation bordering on terrifying, this <em> what if? </em> that will likely haunt him even longer than the things he’s ignoring for her, it makes the Doctor laugh.</p>
<p>More than happy to take a punch for it later, when the Doctor’s solidly grounded in reality again, the Master lifts their joined hands up so he can put a solid, clear kiss to the back of her hand. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you why. He died a complete mystery to me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>When the Master regenerated, he was cold more than anything else. Cold, and lonely, and hated that he was lonely. He was...conflicted, too. About some things. The Master wondered if he should create some sort of Missy tombstone or - it didn’t feel <em> right, </em> turning around and walking away. It didn’t feel right, but nothing did, so the Master left. He looked for the Doctor first, but never expected to find him. The TARDIS was gone, Missy was gone, and so was Missy’s match. Her Doctor. And the Master couldn’t <em>wait</em> to see what his was like.</p>
<p>When the Master got back to Gallifrey, he was indifferent. The Time Lords wanted to put him on trial, wanted to lock him up, wanted to <em> punish him </em> but apparently their beloved Lord President had granted him clemency, no actual presiding required. There was a requirement for that clemency, though, and that requirement was the Master stay on Gallifrey. He wasn’t very worried, considering it just meant he’d meet up with the Doctor on Gallifrey instead of Earth, and maybe there was some <em> fun </em> he could have on Gallifrey, unsupervised.</p>
<p>When the Master found out about the Timeless Child, he was furious. Trapped in the Matrix, learning what Time Lords are, what they’re <em> based on, </em> made him so mad he could barely see straight.</p>
<p>When the Master figured out that the Timeless Child is the Doctor, he went quiet. He...compressed, hard and cold, and curled into himself.</p>
<p>When the Master finally realized <em> he </em> is the Frayed, after a mortifying amount of time that was more than a little bit due to his brain desperately fighting off the knowledge, he screamed for a very long time. He <em> sobbed, </em> he snarled, he did anything and everything he could to tear the Matrix down even while trapped inside it.</p>
<p>But trapped as he was, the Master still watched, over and over again, as the Frayed met their match, no matter how ephemeral and edited the memory was. Making it <em> so much worse, </em> his slowly re-shattering mind would helpfully add the Doctor as a stand-in for the Timeless Child.</p>
<p>It was usually Missy’s Doctor. Not exactly a surprise.</p>
<p>Shame isn’t something the Master feels very often, and it was likely an effect of the Matrix, of memories and emotions trying to fit back inside their former owner, but standing there, watching other versions of himself with the Doctor? Watching children and grandchildren <em> he </em> never got, watching shared inventions and adventures, watching nothing but a night where the Frayed and Not Actually The Doctor stayed in and read together, made something rancid crawl and churn inside the Master.</p>
<p>For every version but himself, and other more recent incarnations (the name wasn’t a joke by any means, after all, and the pattern of degradation is clear), it’s a struggle. But it didn’t need to be. It seemed so easy, for the Frayed.</p>
<p>The Master doesn’t <em> feel things </em> like he’s meant to, but <em> once upon a time, </em> several times, eons of lives, he obviously did. And he and the Doctor could do things like this, sitting together quietly, and be happy. Laughing sometimes. Holding hands, the Child muttering subtle jokes into the Frayed’s hair as they watched the sunset over Gallifrey’s shining mountains.</p>
<p>But they’re a <em> matched set, </em> aren’t they, so now every glimpse, every thought, every vague concept or consideration of those half-wiped memories is filled with <em> her. </em> His Doctor. There’s no regeneration roulette, no question of who will show up in the Child’s place.</p>
<p>In particularly pathetic moments, the Master watches the lifetimes where things went right. Where he can step into the Frayed and have the Doctor teasing him in the middle of a battlefield before the Doctor takes a deep shuddering breath and kisses him. These two are desperate and hungry and so sure they’re going to die, that it’s their last chance because they believe all the lies, that it’s their last life, and they’re <em> in love- </em></p>
<p>He’s furious about the entire situation, about his <em> existence </em> being wholly related to the Doctor, to making the Doctor happy, to proving her superiority over what eventually became the Time Lords. He’s barely capable of even thinking about it without screaming. He hates it, hates being a toy, a plaything. A shadow tied to the Doctor’s feet, following, touching where the Doctor touches. Nothing but a matching silhouette.</p>
<p>And that’s where the shame really comes in. The moments where the Master looks at the Doctor, has all those <em> feelings </em> crawling inside of him, a hot squirming infestation biting his hearts, and wonders, <em> Should I really be upset, if it’s the Doctor? </em></p>
<p>It’s all been real. He analyzed and dissected the personal history of <em> these </em> incarnations, of himself, while trapped in the Matrix. There’s no pre-programmed response for the Frayed.</p>
<p>And maybe it’d be easier if it <em> was </em> programmed, if it wasn’t the Master’s own fault. Maybe, if he could blame Tecteun and the Time Lords, all the feelings could turn into loathing and rage. Something easily manageable.</p>
<p>No. No. The Master doesn’t want that - or does he? <em> What does he want? </em> He doesn’t know how to stop fighting. He doesn’t know if he’d want to stop fighting.</p>
<p>He’s so tired. Sometimes he’s so angry, but now, <em> now </em> he is exhausted in a way that eats his soul.</p>
<p>But when he imagines just...surrendering, sending a message of <em> I’m here, I give up </em> and waiting, it’s infuriating. Pathetic. If it’s not difficult then it’s not right and it doesn’t feel real, and he’s - if there’s one thing, just <em> one thing </em> he would demand of the universe, it’s that things be real.</p>
<p>He wants things to matter, not just be an aspect of extradimensional genetic entanglement.</p>
<p>The Master just wants to matter.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the hallway, the nurse and the redhead are talking to some increasingly loud Judoon guards. The Master doesn’t get to hear much of it, because the second the door opens, the Doctor pounces forward to hug both of them from behind, dragging him along unwittingly since <em> she is still holding his hand. </em></p>
<p>“Hello, ponds!” the Doctor shouts, which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, but he clearly fucked up a <em> lot </em> with the <em> just another adventure </em> command somehow. “Amy, Rory, it’s been <em> ages </em> - well, for me, at least! Probably a few days for the likes of you. Do you like the upgrade? Still getting used to it - bras, am I right?”</p>
<p>Amy nods, very deer in the headlights.</p>
<p>“You really should try a corset, love. <em> Much </em>easier on the back,” the Master says.</p>
<p>The Doctor tenses for a moment, and ah, looks like Missy is a sore subject. <em> What a shock! </em> How sad and tragic for the Doctor, being <em> abandoned, </em> what could that <em> possibly </em> feel like, being left alone to die after doing everything in your power to make your friend stay or even give a shit! <em> Wow, that sure must be really fucking terrible! </em></p>
<p>Just once, <em> once, </em> the Master wants the Doctor to choose <em> him </em> over some stupid humans. Just once. But if even Missy’s army didn’t work, nothing will. He has literally offered the idiot <em> the universe </em> and it still wasn’t enough.</p>
<p>Still, there’s things to do and rhino-faced idiots with guns, so the Master turns his attention towards the more relevant issue, also known as the Judoon. “Is there a problem here?” he asks the nearest idiot.</p>
<p>“Where is the warden?” the Judoon sergeant asks, as the door slam-hisses shut behind Jack. “The contract-”</p>
<p>“Is fulfilled, and terminated,” the Master says, and starts pulling the Doctor and therefore the rest of the group towards the lift. “As is the warden, since you won't pay. The money exchange comes out around the same anyway, with industry standard cost of assassinations.”</p>
<p>“How do you just <em> know </em> that?” Amy asks.</p>
<p>Jack isn’t very subtle about his response. “Evil mastermind, remember?”</p>
<p>But the Judoon are clearly having none of it, stomping after them. The one in charge shouts, “<em>You </em> are guilty of murder!”</p>
<p><em> ‘We should run,’ </em> the Doctor says, and there’s still that glee in her voice, even mentally.</p>
<p><em> ‘You’re obsessed with running, and also they have guns,’ </em> he replies. It happens in no time at all, in the physical world, so there’s not even a blip of hesitation between the Judoon leader’s accusation and the Master rolling his eyes and saying, “Have you read the contract? <em> Penalty of death </em> ring any bells?”</p>
<p>The Master has no idea what’s actually in the contract. But he <em> does </em> remember Autor as a person who would put it in. Autor didn’t care about money and refunds, but getting away with murder is another thing entirely.</p>
<p>From the <em> hmph </em> of the Judoon, he’s not the only one who needs to reread the fine print. All things considered, the actual Doctor-hunting contract might be well and truly lost, and the echoes of the Matrix all jumbled through the Master’s brain holds the last remnants of it.</p>
<p>In what is probably a massive compromise for the Judoon, the rhino-faced idiot says, “Then you will be restrained until the contract is reviewed.”</p>
<p>“No, I will not.” The Master gives them a kind of smile that makes the Doctor let out one long exaggerated groan and drop his hand so she can start shoving her pets towards the lift.</p>
<p>“Go on, go on, we’ll meet you at...wherever we’re going. The TARDIS?” The Doctor says, and the humans nod but look so very uncertain about leaving them. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this, we’ll be fine!”</p>
<p>It’s the last straw, for the Judoon. The disrespect, the certainty of someone who claims to have contract terms in his favor without providing any proof, the fact the Master could <em> literally </em> get away with murder, oh, how it all must <em> burn </em> inside that tiny rhino peabrain. They’re a trigger-happy race to begin with, so the guards aiming all their little laser rifles at them is inevitable, really.</p>
<p>The Master reaches into a pocket and ignores the rhino shouting. “Is the lift door shut?”</p>
<p>“Still seven seconds, but we could run for it,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p>“Always, <em> always </em> running, I can’t stand it,” he mutters, and pulls out a palm-sized gray disk. “You’re terrible at conflict this time around.”</p>
<p>“At least I’m not pulling <em> bombs </em>out of my pockets,” the Doctor hisses back, and puts her hands up with an earnest smile towards the Judoon. “Hi! We’re already acquainted, but I’m the Doctor. And I’d really like to not have anyone else die today-”</p>
<p>“That makes <em> one </em>of us.”</p>
<p>“-so if you’d just let us go, we’ll be on our way!” she finishes with a sharp glare, eyebrows raising to say <em> shut up and let me fix this </em> without even needing telepathy.</p>
<p><em> Ding, </em> goes the lift, doors shutting tight and the number above the entry going up, up, up. It seems to ascend faster than it descends. Curious, considering the artificial gravity in the prison. Meaning there’s probably no artificial gravity in the shaft itself. At the rate it’s going, it might even be a true vacuum in there.</p>
<p>And isn’t that a fun fact? A fun fact, and a highly dangerous design.</p>
<p><em> ‘What are you planning?’ </em>the Doctor asks.</p>
<p><em> ‘Just tell me when they’re in the TARDIS,’  </em>the Master replies, and fiddles with the bomb in his hands. He can feel the baffled indignation from the Doctor, but then feels the growing <em> awe </em> as she realizes that yes, she really can listen to the TARDIS from this far away.</p>
<p>Of course she can. The Doctor has been flying around the same Type 40 TARDIS since it was <em> new. </em> It was <em> literally </em> a museum piece, stored in respect for the Timeless Child who piloted it. And then the Timeless Child ‘stole’ it back.</p>
<p>He has the Curator’s memories of the whole escapade, all fuzzed up and fickle in the back of his head. It’s difficult to <em> not </em> look, even with the Judoon shouting louder and louder and the Master can’t pay attention to the words. He winces, hand going to his head, because it is <em> fickle, </em> spiteful, loud. Curious. So loud.</p>
<p>The Curator was a curious sort, but also a lover of <em> order, </em> of reliable protocol, centuries upon centuries of content if/then statements where the curiosities were brought to <em> them </em>. Like a monarch receiving tribute, as arrogant as any other Time Lord, and believing they understood so much while they knew so very little.</p>
<p>There are noises, and the Master can feel his body getting shoved, can feel it fall. Can <em> see </em> the Doctor dragging him into a doorway, shaking him.</p>
<p>But the Curator got the Timeless Child’s TARDIS barely a year into their time at the Archive (not the Matrix <em> get out of your head </em> ) and the Division - it was the end of them - had marched the box into the Curator’s underground storage area, and they told the Curator not to study it, but preserve it, <em> hide it, </em> and they did. It was protocol. It was how things worked.</p>
<p><em> ‘What...?’ </em> the Doctor says, and she’s standing with him, watching the Curator actively <em> fight </em> to get her TARDIS back into its default cylindrical shape. <em> ‘But that’s - alright, we’re getting shot at, can you get out?’ </em> There’s a pause, and he watches her face. He likes this face. He likes her <em> teeth, </em> her teeth are gorgeous. She looks shocked. <em> ‘Wait. This isn’t your mind, this is the Matrix.’ </em></p>
<p><em> ‘Same thing at this point,’ </em> he says. They say. The Curator is the Master is staring at the Doctor. What else would he ever want to do? But <em> no, </em> the Doctor is too unpredictable for the Curator’s taste, too wild and wily, no, it’s the Master who feels that, thinks that, it’s the Master, it’s <em> him- </em></p>
<p>With a flailing gasp, the Master is balled up in a corner, the Doctor doing her best to hold him close and physically cover him with her own body as the Judoon do their damnedest to kill them. “Are you back?” she shouts over the angry rhinos with lasers. Still breathless from exertion and the ache from an impact he never experienced, the Master can only nod. “Can you run?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not,” the Master says, purely on principle.</p>
<p>“I didn’t ask if you <em> want to, </em> did I?” she snaps. “Am I going to be dragging you around or can you move?”</p>
<p>He wants to bite her. He’s not sure if it’d be in a good way or a bad way, if he’d be after snarls or moaning, both, neither - he’s shaking, it’s <em> stupid and he needs to get his shit together </em> so he compromises, brings his own hand up to bite the side. It hurts, and it’s real. It’s him.</p>
<p>He is the Master.</p>
<p>(The Frayed.)</p>
<p>And he still has a bomb in his other hand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>It took an embarrassing amount of time for the Master to realize he was trapped in the Matrix.</p>
<p>Oh, he wasn’t <em> lost. </em> Not for long. He figured out where he was, how to get out, but the Matrix is semi-sentient. How could it not be, with the number of lives stored within? And he wasn’t subtle about his intentions, either. So, the Matrix did its best to defend itself, and every soul on Gallifrey.</p>
<p>Unfortunately for the Matrix, being crazy was old hat for the Master.</p>
<p>They stormed his mind like an army, besieged him, determined to keep him contained. Voices, everywhere. Ghosts. Cruel memories and bitter lifetimes drowned him, and when it did absolutely nothing but <em> waste his time, </em> that was when they decided to really truly show him what he was.</p>
<p>The Master has gone through the Frayed’s lifetime, oh, four times by now. All of it. And that’s not including the other lifetimes the Matrix forced him through, waterboarded through trauma experienced by people he couldn’t care less about. Did they expect this suffering to be a surprise? Did they have <em> any </em> idea who they were dealing with?</p>
<p>Eventually they did figure out how to hurt him. Eventually.</p>
<p>His obsession with the Doctor isn’t exactly subtle.</p>
<p>But they didn’t do it <em> right. </em> They meant to force the Master to surrender, give up, let the Matrix take his mind into its weave and wait patiently until the Time Lords decided to pull the Frayed out yet again, when the Doctor could use a pick-me-up or a loom-weaver felt guilty again.</p>
<p>The Master is a spiteful bitch, though, so all it did was make sure he killed <em> everyone </em> when he got out. Because they showed him all that suffering, oh yes. They forced him to live it. So <em> of course </em> they all needed to die. Of course they did. Not just for the Timeless Child, but for <em> themselves, </em> for the arrogant brutality of what the Master had once believed were his people.</p>
<p>Really, destroying Gallifrey might be the most noble thing he’s ever done.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s easy enough to get a grip on the bomb and look around, even with the Doctor still very very close and very distracting. She smells like cheap soap and he shouldn’t like that. He really shouldn’t. This is not the time <em> at all </em> and they’re too connected for it to be anything but inappropriate (which <em> does </em> matter, particularly with a control ring on - he does have <em> some </em> scruples) so he clears his throat and says, “Take a deep breath and hold on.”</p>
<p>“They’re in the TARDIS,” the Doctor says, and actually listens to him, grabbing onto the bars of a nearby cell. “Don’t hurt anyone!”</p>
<p>“If they’re smart they won’t get hurt,” the Master says, knowing full well this is going to send every Judoon buffoon to certain doom, and grabs on as well before he tosses the bomb towards a seemingly innocuous panel on the wall that, if his engineering knowledge tells him anything (and it does), holds this level’s controls for the grav-boosters.</p>
<p>Here’s why this entire prison asteroid is idiotic:</p>
<p>Gravity ensures the aero-boosters function, because hot air rises, and without gravity there’s no clear definition of <em> down </em> and <em> up </em> in an open space because hyperpolarized air isn’t exactly intelligent. So it stops self-regulating. Which means the ventilation (and heating system, incidentally) stops functioning, which not only means oxygen is rapidly depleting but also pressure is building, in a system that operates pneumatic locking mechanisms, also known as <em> air pressure </em> mechanisms, most of which rely on pushing that air pressure into another tube to open or close locks or do whatever other tasks they have it set up for, which they chose to fill with hyperpolarized air.</p>
<p>In other words - the Master blows up a panel, gravity shuts off, airflow turns into sporadic very flammable bubbles of oxygen, and every single door in the place hisses open. Which includes the elevator shaft. Which means what air remained is immediately vented into a vacuum, and anything not tied down is jettisoned into the cost-effective transportation system that they conveniently left open to space itself for a little bit of speed boost.</p>
<p>The Judoon rocket out so quickly that more than a few of them slam into the elevator shaft wall hard enough to break bones and snap necks, pulverized by the impact.</p>
<p>Emergency systems strain to shut the doors, and neglected failsafe magnetic seals barely capable of operating close the doors again. There’s still no gravity, still no air, but at least there’s no open entrance into the freezing darkness of space.</p>
<p>And the Doctor does <em> not </em> look happy with him.</p>
<p>She looks angry and her hair is drifting around her head and he <em> hates her, </em> he feels things just from looking at her, he’s not sure if he wants to reach out and watch her hair swim through his fingers or reach out and <em> strangle her, </em> take what little air she has left and no. <em> Nope. </em> This is a <em> rescue, </em> and he can go have a good long screaming fit about her existence later.</p>
<p>The Master has a plan to get them to the TARDIS - and likely so does the Doctor - but in three pulses of warped reality, the TARDIS comes to them instead, phasing into existence around them. It feels cheap. Particularly since the sudden return of gravity leaves the Master dropping flat to the floor and the Doctor slamming down on top of him. Touching him. Looking at him.</p>
<p>“Get off get off get <em> off," </em> the Master shouts at her, shoving the Doctor - oh no, he forgot about the breasts - and scrambles away until his back hits one of the crystal columns.</p>
<p><em> Should he fight it, if it’s the Doctor?  </em>It’s real. It’s not some sort of pre-programmed Frayed reaction, it’s <em> real, </em> but the Master still finds himself hiding his head beneath his arms and whispering, “I hate you, I <em> hate </em> you, leave me alone.”</p>
<p>“You’re not getting out of this by having a breakdown,” the Doctor snaps. “How many people did you kill?”</p>
<p>The Master laughs, because of course this is how it goes. The oh so merciful Doctor, forgiving towards everyone but him. “I don’t know. I don’t <em> care.” </em></p>
<p>“Of course you don’t. Why did I even bother asking,” the Doctor says. “You couldn’t behave even for one outing?”</p>
<p>
  <em> Just another fun little adventure. </em>
</p>
<p>If he removes the command, everything will be (justifiably) traumatic and she’ll be in pain, and she <em> deserves it, </em> doesn’t she? For doing this to him. The Master is here for <em> her </em> sake, he’s done all of this to get the Doctor out of jail, it’s the most selfless thing he’s done in ages, but nooooo, he killed some sentient creatures in the process and therefore nothing else matters.</p>
<p>“Did you make the Doctor forget about the control ring?” the freak asks him, like some sort of hard warning.</p>
<p>“Oh no, I remember. And I know he won’t actually use it. Or not like you’re worried he will,” the Doctor says, eyes burning with anger and hurt. “The Master can’t <em>win</em> if there’s no fight.”</p>
<p>She crouches in front of him, in a switched-up parody of the prison cell. The Master is curled in on himself, and the Doctor hovers. He digs his fingers into his own hair and looks at anything but the Doctor.</p>
<p>The TARDIS is very quiet, and he can hear his own rapid breathing, his own frantic heartbeat, and eventually he can hear the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver coming out to <em> scan him. </em> Viper-quick, the Master slaps the screwdriver out of her hand. It tumbles across the appallingly large control room, and that single moment of skin-to-skin contact is enough for him to feel the rising level of concern the Doctor has, realizing that there is something very wrong with him, the way she’s paying attention and listening. And it means the Doctor can feel the <em> panic, </em> the bitter horror of <em> longing. </em> He wants the Doctor <em> i will </em> <b> <em>always </em> </b> <em> love you </em> (the <em> regret </em> of that choice) and he wants to not want the Doctor and he wants them not to be who they are and he wants to die and he wants her to do it, wants them to burn together but wants to <em> win, </em> wants to be worth something wants to matter wants her to <em> love me love me love me-</em></p>
<p>“Oh,” the Doctor whispers.</p>
<p>She doesn’t read all of it, because otherwise she’d have the TARDIS flying to the first psych ward she can think of. Or back to Gallifrey and the Matrix. Instead, she hovers over him.</p>
<p>“If you apologize, I will break your neck,” the Master says. And that’s <em> all </em>   him. All them. He can just hear the <em> I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry </em> on the tip of her tongue.</p>
<p>“Alright,” the Doctor says softly, and rocks back, away from him. “I still have Missy’s room, if you-”</p>
<p>“Just take me back to my own TARDIS,” he says.</p>
<p>“I need to drop the Ponds and Jack off first,” the Doctor says, and leaves him on the floor to instead put in coordinates.</p>
<p>It’s an excuse, obviously. Just one more chance for the Doctor to watch him, make sure he’s not running around committing mass murder for the hell of it.</p>
<p>He can’t gather enough energy to even be mad about it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Sometimes, the Master feels unstoppable. He’s always a genius, but it’s <em> even better </em> in those beautiful bursts of time - and it was a near-constant state of existence, when he was pretending to be Harold Saxon. Smarter, faster, crueler, and he was going to <em> win. </em> Losing had felt like a true impossibility, the drums a constant pressure in the back of his mind but <em> nothing </em> compared to the speed of his thoughts. Volatile and violent, a barely-contained explosion, he could outrace the wind.</p>
<p>Missy was a deep tide, with the absence of drums leaving a kind of wavering calculation that could flip up, flip down, turn all around, more interested in the dance itself than the end result of her charade. In comparison, she was <em> calm, </em> methodical, and best of all, being Missy meant he could actually pay attention to things outside his own head and blood for more than a few days. And yes, she had those moments of <em> passion, </em> but more often than not, she was a conniving bitch that could keep her cool.</p>
<p>And now. <em> Now. </em> This version of himself.</p>
<p>He’s so tired, and he’s so angry. He’s angry all the time, and he <em> hurts </em> and he wants to make others hurt right along with him. Worst of all, this version shatters, feels like a sentient field of broken glass snarling in an attempt to stab anything that comes near. He’s not cold like ice, he’s cold like a furnace left empty, and he doesn’t know how to get enough fuel - oh, he tries, he <em> tries </em> and sometimes he manages it. Sometimes he bursts to life like a conflagration of wrath and laughter, but now it takes effort. Effort, or the Doctor, who <em> always </em> makes him erupt, for better or worse. She’s a lightning storm, thundering in his mind.</p>
<p>How long can he control it? How <em> normal </em> can he seem? It’s one of the reasons he loves the long con of a disguise. No ups and downs allowed, just a rigid adherence to the persona. He almost misses being O.</p>
<p>He misses being Missy.</p>
<p>If it had been Missy who found the truth in the Matrix, she would have <em> punished </em> , not just destroyed it all. Vaporized anyone she could consider vaguely responsible, and found a way to drag out every piece of the Timeless Child that a Gallifreyan had within them. Then the Artron energy would’ve been a good civilization-shattering bomb, and she’d present it to the Doctor right along with the truth, and <em> waited. </em> Because there were few things she loved as much as forcing the Doctor’s hand with dispensing divine justice. And at the end of that, she would ask her Doctor to choose the Frayed’s fate. Arms wide, eyes shut, she would force him to choose.</p>
<p>If it was <em> Saxon, </em> oh, the Master’s not sure how things would go. Maybe he would do the same, destroy Gallifrey and every shred of the Child that he could find. Or maybe, as an act of pure unbridled spite, he would’ve grabbed the nearest Chameleon Arch and turned himself human - removed what pieces of the Child he could - and dumped the human version of himself onto the Doctor. Or maybe he’d do <em> both, </em> destroy Gallifrey and then the Time Lord part of himself. It’s hard to tell, really.</p>
<p>The Master feels so completely removed from the pre-Time War versions of himself (of <em> the Master, </em> specifically) that he doesn’t even try to guess what their reactions would be.</p>
<p>And yet, he knows that none of them would have collected the Time Lord bodies like he did. Yes, destroying the planet was done in a chaotic burst of a manic rampage, but after that, when there was nothing left to fight him, he tallied them up. Their names were etched into his mind, thanks to the Matrix, and he threw every one of them into the same room, one more check box, one more cold lurch of something far from satisfaction, one more death as close to avenged as they'll ever get.</p>
<p>This version of himself can’t stop the hate, the <em> pain, </em> the ever-present agony of just fucking <em> existing. </em> The fire is draining away, and it’s so much worse now. It only ever gets worse.</p>
<p>He misses being the Master.</p>
<p>---</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Untimely Child</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Master has moved to slump on the stairs instead of the floor, which is partly thanks to Rory the Nurse. When the Doctor offered to help the Master get up, he told her to not touch him, and the solution to that problem was, apparently, the nurse doing it instead. Rory checked his pulse, checked his eyes, frowned a lot, and then soon enough it was time for the Ponds to leave, thank you very much.</p>
<p>It’s barely worth comment when the Doctor wipes her old companions' minds. She drops the Ponds off with the kind of hug that means they’re already dead in her personal timeline, 24 hours of amnesia, and a note that says, <em> Had to wipe your memory because of timelines, you know how it is! XOXO a Future Doctor </em></p>
<p>Jack stays in the TARDIS, with him. Watching him.</p>
<p>The Master winks. It’s the closest he can get to saying <em> fuck off </em> in the Doctor’s deliberately irritating TARDIS.</p>
<p>Getting rid of Jack is more complicated than the Ponds.</p>
<p>“I know you think he’s safe, for whatever reason,” he tells the Doctor, eyes <em> still </em> trained on the Master. “But I can’t leave you alone with him while he’s got that ring.”</p>
<p>The stairs are a much better place to sprawl out and scowl at the freak. “I have done <em> nothing </em> but help.”</p>
<p>“You killed the warden!” Jack says.</p>
<p>The Master scoffs. “And you just stood there and <em> watched, </em> no problem with it. At least, not until now, when the Doctor might be upset.”</p>
<p>Instead of engaging further - clever boy - Jack looks to the Doctor with worried eyes. “And you’d be angry about that, but you seem more annoyed than anything else. That’s not normal for you, Doctor. He’s already controlling you!”</p>
<p>“It’s complicated,” the Doctor says, and he <em> loves </em> how it sounds more like a pitying consolation than any sort of actual reassurance. She gestures back at the Master, and doesn’t even bother with the pretense of lowering her voice like he’s some human who won’t hear what she says. “Besides, there’s…” She sighs. “I need to keep an eye on him, for at least a little while.”</p>
<p>Jack’s shoulders tighten. “We’ve had this conversation before.”</p>
<p>When did - <em> ugh, </em> right, the Master remembers. On the Valiant. At least Lucy shot him in time to skip the details of what his righteous babysitter was plotting. <em> Someone to care for, </em> the Doctor had said. Please. Even if he hadn’t not-quite-died (oh, he’s laughing again now), the Doctor - that one in particular - wouldn’t make it two years without tossing the Master onto a dead planet and picking up another soft-brained little ape instead.</p>
<p>After all, what is today’s party favor other than tomorrow’s irritating piece of trash?</p>
<p>“He needs help, Jack,” the Doctor says, and ooh, that’s her cold ultimatum voice.</p>
<p>And because of his frustration and worry and sweet sappy love for the Doctor, Jack makes the ultimate mistake by shouting, <em>“So do you!” </em></p>
<p>Every single incarnation of the Doctor <em> hates </em> being told they can’t do something on their own. Not smart enough, not fast enough, not old enough, there are millions of years of insecurities hiding behind the Doctor’s own and far more intimately experienced memories of being too silly, too stupid, too poor, too <em> Doctor. </em></p>
<p>The Master is too much of a pained bleeding heart today, because instead of gleefully awaiting the Doctor’s explosion, he derails the conflict. He presses down on the control ring trigger. “Alright, Doctor, for the next five minutes, any and all commands are nullified.”</p>
<p>He takes his thumb off the ring, and the Doctor sags. She wraps her arms around her torso, head bowed, and <em> shudders. </em> Jack frowns, and she steps back, away from the freak.</p>
<p>“How long was I in there?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse.</p>
<p>“Is this what you’d prefer to feel?” the Master asks, and stands up. When <em> he </em> approaches, all she does is turn to watch. No flinching, no evasion. Just watching him with beautifully suspicious eyes. “If you’d rather be a traumatized mess, Doctor, I’m happy to oblige. This is just me speeding up the repression. You’d bounce back eventually.”</p>
<p>“No. It’s more than that,” she says, eyes squeezing shut. “Whatever you’re controlling, it makes me think you <em> belong here, </em> like this is normal. Or like it’s meant to be normal.”</p>
<p>He smirks. “I suppose it is torturous, then.”</p>
<p>“Why are you here?” the Doctor hisses.</p>
<p>The Master answers every single level of that question when he shrugs and says, “You. When <em> isn’t </em> it you.”</p>
<p>And he’s back to that surge of feelings he doesn’t know what to do with - kill her, kiss her, drop to his knees and stare at nothing, scream and destroy anything he can get his hands on. Too much. She’s always too much, if he doesn’t have something to focus on. A persona. A plan. Something. <em> Anything. </em></p>
<p>“Are you really blaming <em> me </em> for the Timeless Child?” the Doctor asks, incredulous.</p>
<p>He steps back, he paces, he has to move. The Master shakes his head too violently to look rational, not that it matters, he doesn’t need to look sane for the Doctor and he doesn’t give a shit what the freak thinks. “You got an abbreviated version, Doctor. My brain has all of it. Everything. Anything there is to see, I’ve seen.”</p>
<p>“It’s destroying what little sanity you had,” she says, and all of the hunching is gone. Instead, she’s watching him, stalking after his erratic pacing. “Nobody can hold the entire Matrix inside their brain without losing their mind, and then your genius plan was to add the Cyberium to it?”</p>
<p>“But I almost won,” the Master says. He pivots, sharp and fast enough that the Doctor nearly runs right into his chest, and grins. “You let someone die for you. You made the dregs of Gallifrey burn. And for a second, for those <em> beautiful </em>heartbeats, oh, I thought you’d do it. I would tear myself open again and again if it meant we’d die together.”</p>
<p>Aaaand <em> ding, </em> time runs out. The command snaps back into place, the Doctor’s expression going from intense concern and fury to mild confusion and a bit of worry. “But you’ve always…” She frowns at the Master. “Hm.”</p>
<p>He watches the gears in her head whirr through his past desperate obsession with <em> not </em> dying, <em> click-click-click </em> hmm what changed <em> click-click-click </em> oh, the Matrix, maybe it showed him something <em> click-click-click </em> and he is very upset about the Timeless Child isn’t he <em> click-click-click- </em></p>
<p>The Master pushes on the control ring, and says, voice infinitely more soft than he intended, “I’m just me, love.”</p>
<p>“And the Master I know would never think like that,” she says, and oh no. Oh no, what did he do, because it isn’t what he wants <em> (or is it) </em> when she reaches out and puts a hand on his cheek, and he’s - he needs to find a <em> fucking </em> instruction manual. “What happened to you?”</p>
<p><em> “Doctor,” </em> Jack says.</p>
<p>There’s probably more to Jack’s objection than the Doctor’s name, but the Master doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy flinching as the Doctor shoves her way into his mind and memories, as reckless as ever.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>Once upon several times, they meet.</p>
<p>After that, it’s chaos to try and quantify their relationship. It’s self-aggrandizing to say <em> their </em> relationship is the most complex, but he named himself <em> the Master </em> so it’s a measurement he applies readily when looking at the eons of selves that live and live and live between then and now.</p>
<p>At the very least, being the only two versions to actually know the truth would make this go-around the most intricate.</p>
<p>Over the past few centuries, the Master has ensured his mind is a fucking nightmare for anyone else to enter. Not very hard, really, since it’s already miserable to be inside half the time. There are pockets of rationality, though. An ever-dwindling number of safe places in his head.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s always been the better telepath, by a <em> lot, </em> and it still takes effort to grab the Doctor and direct her to something that doesn’t have claws and sinkholes, keep her inside of <em> him </em> instead of getting sucked into his personal copy of the Matrix.</p>
<p>She’s golden, of course, a gilded burst of <em> I am so much more than you </em> echoing in a memory more stable than the others.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>The moments he dissects most are what stay clear. They stand on the Valiant, because the Master agonizes over those final moments, the regeneration who was Prime Minister Harold Saxon even more. He cut the minutes into seconds into breaths into heartbeats, into fractions of time so small there’s no translation for it.</p>
<p>“It’s always the women,” his younger and far more stupid self says in the memory, with a pained manic smile.</p>
<p>The Master would like to say he focuses on what went wrong. He’d like to lie and say it’s about revenge, or finding victory in defeat. But every regeneration is a sick pathetic piece of shit sometimes and this room is agonizingly crystalline perfection down to the dust on the floor and the strained whirr of the air conditioning because it is obsessive, how often he focused down to the feel of two arms around him, two heartbeats hidden beneath a suit.</p>
<p>It’s a fine tightly-woven wool, too tight to feel soft against his palms. His fingers. His cheek.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ha ha, very funny,” the Doctor says, unimpressed as the younger Master starts in on the sexism. At least the racism was pure oblivious idiocy - he’d always been white, why should he care? The sexism, on the other hand.</p>
<p>“Unfortunately, you can’t beat a memory with a crowbar,” he commiserates. He’s tried.</p>
<p>The Master loathes this part of his death, but at least he can very easily pause (well, ‘pause’ as in slow down to a tiny increment that could be considered ‘not moving’) the memory. He sticks with this bit because it has the least amount of blood and/or crying.</p>
<p>That, and the practical fact that if they get stuck here, Captain Jack Harkness has a much higher likelihood of communicating successfully if he’s already in the damn memory.</p>
<p>“Now, whatever you’re looking for? Forget it and leave,” the Master says. Being in his brain means there’s no control ring to make this easier. “I don’t want to force you out, but I will. At least one of us should pass for sane.”</p>
<p>“Stop trying to steer me, I’m doing this for <em> you,” </em> the Doctor says.</p>
<p>He <em> laughs, </em> oh, how he laughs at that, has to scrub at his eyes because she’s such a horrible liar yet tries so hard. “Ah, yes. You’re trying to <em> help me.” </em></p>
<p>“Yes, I am, even though you don’t deserve it,” she snaps. It only seems to irritate her more when the Master shrugs, not refuting it. When she looks away from him, it’s only natural that her eyes land on their past selves. The pain is expected. Of course it is. Nothing surprising.</p>
<p>The <em> calculation, </em> on the other hand - well, that <em> shouldn’t </em> be a surprise, but the Master’s mind isn’t quite what it used to be when the Doctor is involved.</p>
<p>She looks the Master in the eye, and says with an innocence that hasn’t been anything but feigned for thousands of years, “Whatever your father says, I don’t care.”</p>
<p><em> “Don’t,” </em> he warns, but it’s the Doctor. Telling her to do something almost guarantees the opposite result. “Don’t go there, it’s not-”</p>
<p>The Doctor grabs his hands, and for a long enough moment that his mind follows her instructions, the Master could almost confuse her for Theta.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>Some memories are like spun glass, so fragile and delicate that he can barely stand to look at them. So precious to him that he doesn’t dare disturb it, for so many reasons. So breakable because the Master is so breakable.</p>
<p>What he <em> remembers </em> (a situation very different compared to observing preserved memories, for a Time Lord) is something he cannot stand to believe is misinterpreted. The dread eats at his hearts when he’s stupid enough to think about it, wondering if he’s a desperate madman actually hoarding fool’s gold.</p>
<p>If he doesn’t look, he doesn’t have to know. Because if he’s wrong, if he’s <em> wrong </em> and he remembers something different, Frayed or not, undying or not, it <em> will </em>kill him.</p>
<p>Koschei, his first life - <em> this life’s </em> first life - has a special dedicated corner of what’s left of the Master’s mind. It’s formative, and protected, and the Master very rarely ventures inside. He remembers instead, clings to flawed recollections that fade over the millennia.</p>
<p>When the Doctor invades his mind out of raw cruel curiosity, she shoves them into a memory she <em> knows </em> he would preserve.</p>
<p>Koschei stood in his father’s drawing room with Theta Sigma. They’re barely 80 years old, and Koschei had a ribbon in his hands that he couldn’t stop toying with, bunched it up, rolled it neatly, started spooling it around his own hand before pulling it away once his brain recognized the action, and snapped it away. His breath was audible, close to hyperventilating.</p>
<p>“Whatever your father says, I don’t care,” Theta said. He was (is) beautiful. He was considered an arrogant obnoxious idiot at the Academy and was everything Koschei had ever loved. He was also very clearly indulging Koschei with this, dressed as formally as Koschei but with a blase air that emphasized how little he cared about the outcome of this meeting.</p>
<p><em> Theta </em> didn’t have a parent to ask, to give him away. He had people, but not like Koschei. </p>
<p>They waited in silence for seven hours. The meeting never happened.</p>
<p>It was the very last time Koschei - the Master - respected an authority figure.</p>
<p>“Guess he’s dead, then. What a shame,” Koschei said, and <em> immediately </em> pulled Theta towards him, right there in the drawing room. There was nothing elegant about tying the ribbon around their hands, fast and shaky and their fingers kept running into each other because it was too short. Theta had woken Koschei up just that morning with an idea in his head and a ribbon in hand and that was all Koschei needed, <em> running </em> to this far from empty house. The place was huge, and ancient, and flammable.</p>
<p>They weren’t big on ceremony. They weren’t big on waiting. Or at least Theta wasn’t and Koschei was too blindly in love with him to consider slowing down as an option.</p>
<p>The Master is too scared to slow down the memory to reexamine it. He can’t look, he can’t <em> breathe, </em> but their true names are deafening. The sound echoes and echoes, cherished and unforgettable, a stabbing onslaught of syllables that are exactly what he remembers every <em> fucking </em> time his hearts break.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I hate you,” the Master says, and means it. Partly. Mostly. Who the fuck knows at this point, watching the Doctor scramble around their idiot near-child selves getting married less than half a day after Theta even suggested it. They were the equivalent of 18 year olds. Very young. Very stupid. Very <em> passionate. </em> “I <em> hate </em> you, get out of my head.”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>“Get out of my head,” the Master snarls in the TARDIS, and tries to shake her off.</p>
<p>The Doctor has always been a weaker telepath. She’s too focused in his mind to say anything, too busy to fight back. That doesn’t keep her hands from clamping down on his forearm.</p>
<p>“Get off her!” Jack shouts, like <em> he’s </em> the problem.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>“You’re not going to risk throwing shields up in <em> this </em> memory,” the Doctor says, smug and terrible, and keeps looking around the ether of his mind.</p>
<p>The Master’s hands clench into fists.</p>
<p>Koschei and Theta kissed. There were tears in Koschei’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Won’t I?” the Master says, walks over, grabs the Doctor by the front of her shirt, and punches her.</p>
<p>Behind them, the idiot newlyweds broke apart for breath and he doesn’t want to hear it he doesn’t want to hear it <em> please. </em></p>
<p>The Doctor <em> snarls,</em> drags him forward, and headbutts him so hard his vision goes dark for a second. She takes advantage of the stun, slamming his back against a wall. The front of his skull is ringing and the back of his skull stings from the impact and he squeezes his eyes shut <em> and he still hears it. </em></p>
<p>Koschei whispered his brand new husband’s true name, so sacred his lips shook and his tongue burned, and he doomed himself by pressing their foreheads together as he swore with every piece of his hearts, his soul, past present and future, “I will <em> always </em> love you.”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>The Master can’t shake the Doctor’s grip on his arm, and he’s too busy fighting the Doctor in his mind to physically fight Jack too. Not that he stands much of a chance right now anyway. The Master’s advantages in a fight all come down to intelligence and he’s good, he’s very good, but he can’t be wily in <em> two </em> fights simultaneously.</p>
<p>Instead of trying to break the Doctor’s hold, Jack is lightning-quick about pulling the control ring off the Master’s finger.</p>
<p>Which means everything stops being a fun little adventure for the Doctor.</p>
<p>The Master doesn’t even try to stop him. His priority is getting the Doctor out of his head, in a desperate way that makes the ring feel like a passing whim. It always has been. A bit of fancy, of <em> fantasy, </em> and Jack throws it across the room in anticipation of a fight that never comes.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Even with flecks of dazed light swirling through his vision, the Master snaps his hands up around the Doctor’s throat and <em> squeezes </em> as he hisses, <em> “Get out of my head.” </em></p>
<p>Theta made a desperate noise, because they didn’t plan it, and Koschei just swore himself to Theta for eternity, through every single regeneration. Theta kissed him like the world was ending, like Koschei <em> was </em> his world. Like their lives were beginning, for the first and final time.</p>
<p>The Doctor chokes, but manages to shove one of the Master’s arms away, pinning it to the wall and getting the other pinned too, because the Master is very, very dizzy. She holds his wrists above his head, and coughs, and her voice is gratifyingly hoarse, eyes watering a bit, when she says, “I’m trying to <em> help </em>you!”</p>
<p>Theta didn’t say it back.</p>
<p>Koschei was too happy to notice.</p>
<p>“You don’t want to know,” the Master says, increasingly desperate, and knees her in the stomach as hard as he can. She lets out a harsh huff of air, but somehow still manages to hold on. If this keeps up, he can feel his control slipping, he’s going to break the memory or lose track of it, flickering through situation-relevant bullshit like some human with a bland train of thought, linear and helpless.</p>
<p>The Master begs, “Get out. You don’t want to know, Theta, you-”</p>
<p>“Let me help you!” she shouts, and that’s <em> tears </em> in her eyes, rage and frustration and so much fear. But she’s scared <em> for </em> him. As if she has the right to feel that. As if she has <em> any </em> right to be concerned <em> now </em> when she never was before. “For <em> once, </em> just let me help you.”</p>
<p>Theta said, “I love you.” And it sounded like he meant it. Theta made no request. Neither did. All they asked for was each other.</p>
<p>But it was <em> nothing </em> compared to what Koschei did.</p>
<p>The Doctor releases his arms, and says, “Please.” She puts their foreheads together gently, and it hurts and he hates her.</p>
<p>He <em> hates her. </em></p>
<p>The Doctor says, “I want to help you.” And it sounds like she means it.</p>
<p>He hates her he hates her he hates her and he’s <em> so tired. </em> He’s so fucking tired.</p>
<p>The Master looks her in the eye for a cold, hard moment, and says, “Fine.”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>“Good luck picking up the pieces,” the Master says with a bitter laugh.</p>
<p>“What are you doing to her?” Jack asks, still like he needs to protect the Doctor. So threatening. So scary, my oh my. The Master’s shaking in his shoes.</p>
<p>“I’m giving the Doctor what she wants,” he says. He slumps to the floor and very deliberately closes his eyes, trying to be oblivious to the world.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Let’s begin with something familiar, eh?” the Master says. “Something good and painful. Something that’s <em> festered, </em> all this time, a question that we assumed the answer was ‘because Time Lords are assholes’ - which, while true, wasn’t the <em> actual </em> reason.”</p>
<p>He snaps his fingers. It’s unnecessary, but it’s a bitter hint of control. Like he has any say in where this is going, after things start to really move.</p>
<p>Their first bodies, after about 100 years of marriage, were so surprised they went silent, which was a rare thing indeed. The bureaucrat loom-weaver behind the desk was brutally blunt with them as she repeated, “You aren’t allowed access to a loom. It’s a formal ruling. There’s nothing anyone can do.”</p>
<p>The Master was about to start shouting, but the Doctor beat him to it with a loud, completely baffled, <em> “Why?” </em></p>
<p>The loom-weaver’s answer was a sigh, and an exhausted, “Take it up with the President.”</p>
<p>And they were told to leave.</p>
<p>“We could jump off a bridge, see if one of us regenerates with a uterus,” the Master said when they were forcibly removed by security.</p>
<p>“That’s ridiculous. Do you really think either of us would handle pregnancy well?” the Doctor asked.</p>
<p>The Master raised an eyebrow. “Does any Time Lord?”</p>
<p>“Fair point.”</p>
<p>They appealed to the President. Instead of approval or explanations, they received summons for their own arranged marriages (calling them <em> prescribed partnerships </em> would be more accurate) the next month. The Master’s assigned individual was high-class, ambitious, and politically advantageous, the oh so <em> perfect </em> match for the sole heir of noble and ancient House Oakdown, and he did not give a shit. She could’ve been Rassilon and he wouldn’t give a shit. The Doctor’s assigned individual was...fine. Whatever.</p>
<p>The Doctor, who was the driving force behind wanting children, went along with it. Seemed to think it was a good idea, even. Said the Master’s assigned <em> creature </em> was great, really! So much in common! <em> They’d get along great! And don’t worry, it’s not like we stop being married. </em></p>
<p>The Master, who was still young and had nearly ripped someone’s eyes out for just <em> looking </em>at Theta when they were 30, did not take it well. It was the first time he took a trip to a planet just to make it burn. Either nobody found out, or nobody cared enough to say anything, and he learned ashes and tears don’t mix well.</p>
<p>Thankfully, the Master’s long over jealousy by now, to the point he pities people more than anything. But this? He <em> still </em> hasn’t taken it well.</p>
<p>He didn’t talk to the Doctor for 10 years, when they met while dropping their firstborn off at the Untempered Schism.</p>
<p>He didn’t touch the Doctor for 120 years, when his daughter graduated from the Academy and the Master watched, feeling something he eventually understood as <em> pride. </em> He took the Doctor’s hand in his, tried to ignore the Doctor’s shaky breath, and said, “Alright, fine, I can see why you wanted children.”</p>
<p>But that’s not the point of this.</p>
<p>
  <em> Snap. </em>
</p>
<p>The real answer he shows the Doctor is this:</p>
<p>The same bureaucratic loom-weaver sat drinking in a backroom with an unfamiliar Time Lord. They’re not in the Matrix, so they probably died in the Time War. “I don’t get it. They weren’t any worse than some other couples who’ve come in,” the loom-weaver said.</p>
<p>The unfamiliar Time Lord, who seemed more than a little drunk, snorted and leaned in, conspiratorial. “Look. Have you ever seen psychic inbreeding?”</p>
<p>The loom-weaver frowned. “I didn’t know that’s even possible.”</p>
<p>“It’s not, unless you’re dealing with <em>them</em>,” the Time Lord said.</p>
<p><em> “What?” </em> the Doctor blurts out, and oh, it’s just the <em> start </em>. It’s hard to shush her without laughing.</p>
<p>“What? I checked their family trees, they’re nowhere near related,” the loom-weaver objected.</p>
<p>“No no no, of course they’re not, that’s the <em> point. </em> The problem is if they have kids, then <em> those</em> kids will have kids, and we can’t really run around going <em> no that’s actually your second cousin, psychically.” </em> The Time Lord shrugged. “So if their kids are, y’know, <em> biological</em> kids, made the risky way, we’re kind of screwed unless we arrange an accident before their kid gets to a certain age. And those two, they’re smart, so that doesn’t always go well. But we’ve been keeping them away from the looms for the past 5000 years or so, and it’s helped out a lot. Only a few incidents.”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand,” the Doctor says. She’s looking at him instead of the conversation. “Psychic inbreeding? That would mean the same <em> minds </em> having children, and that’s…” She shakes her head, baffled. “Not even a clone would have the same psychic signature.”</p>
<p>“True,” the Master agrees.</p>
<p>And with true characteristic consideration towards him, the Doctor looks the Master up and down and asks, like he’s about to sprout tentacles. “What <em> are </em>you?”</p>
<p>Be direct and show the Frayed’s death and resurrection? Or drag her along, see how she deals with the frustration?</p>
<p>“Please tell me you’re not my secret brother or something,” the Doctor says, absolutely horrified.</p>
<p>The Master snickers, and fine. Fine. He snaps his fingers, and takes them back to a tragic accident - two children, fighting. Because of course they are. When don’t they fight. “Here we are.” The Doctor is still just <em> watching him, </em> so he points at the Timeless Child. “See? You.” He points at the other child. “Me.”</p>
<p>There is a very large part of the Master that wants to kick the Frayed off the cliff. Maybe then he’d be dead and the Child would have a long healthy life where nobody found out she could regenerate until old age came for her. Tecteun would be dead by then too, ideally, so it would all be fine. He’d be dead, the Doctor would be an immortal do-gooder not medically tortured for, what, 15 years straight? Something like that. Everyone gets what they want.</p>
<p>But that’s not how memories work.</p>
<p>Just like last time they were here, the two children struggled in a tiny, pointless scuffle, and off they went. With a snap, he takes them to the ground, where the Child regenerated for the very first time. But now, the Doctor’s eyes are fixed on the second child. The boy whose dead eyes were still open and so surprised, locked in an unpleasant epiphany when he hit the ground.</p>
<p>“He’s not regenerating, though,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p>The Master watches the parents come running instead of looking at the Doctor. “No. Because he’s not special.” He huffs out a laugh. “Just a conveniently located corpse, really.”</p>
<p>He means to let the memory play out through Tecteun’s proposal, through her bundling up his very first corpse and eagerly tossing him over her shoulder for easy transport. Instead, the world is flickering between memories, other pieces of the story glitching their way into the cliff. Into the parents. Into the air.</p>
<p>“Is this why you’re borderline suicidal?” the Doctor asks.</p>
<p>Nothing <em> borderline </em> about it, but the Master’s not stupid enough to say that. With a dazzling smile, he says, “Oh, no, this is why trying to die is a waste of energy. I’ve been dead for eons. It’s the, well, the <em> soul </em> that’s immortal, I suppose. Psychic signature? Consciousness?”</p>
<p>Static sounds from the heavens, a bit like whispers. Or screams.</p>
<p>
  <em> Three words. </em>
</p>
<p>Missy didn’t know everything, but she sure as fuck knew what getting cremated felt like. So did Saxon, burning on a noble Gallifrey-style pyre and trapped <em> screaming </em> into the nothingness as the Doctor looked on, stoic, deaf to his begging. And <em> now, </em> he’s experienced being burned not-quite-alive so many times he can’t even count.</p>
<p>He doesn’t have time to snap his fingers, this time. The illusion of control vanishes the second he hears the Doctor’s breath catch. A teeny tiny itty bitty, “Oh.”</p>
<p>The memories flash too quickly for him to even try to weave some sort of narrative.</p>
<p>Trapped in a spacesuit with no air left, floating in the vacuum of space, abandoned, the golden light of regeneration beginning but not strong enough to save him from anything but one more death, and one more hole in the helmet. (Period of suffering for the Frayed: 72 years until he finally burned up in the planet’s atmosphere. Consciousness recollected by the Division and spun into the Frayed, stuck in the nothingness for another 200 or so years.)</p>
<p>Body dumped in the center of an irradiated field, melting to death every 4 hours, barely managing to crawl a few feet before turning into a humanoid puddle that reforms the next day, for another 4 hours. The blast radius is massive, but as he inches away, he lasts longer and longer. It feels like such a blessing when he lasts 8 hours, and then a day, and when he walks out he doesn’t care that he irradiates every single person who comes to stare at him. (Period of suffering for the Frayed: 32 years. The incarnation went so insane he was recollected and spun for the sake of Time Lords everywhere - surely the next time would be better, for all involved.)</p>
<p>A sinkhole, trapped at the bottom. Drowned by mud every time he regenerates. (Period of suffering for the Frayed: 2 years. Refused to set foot on a planet again for 480 years.)</p>
<p>“Stop. <em> Stop,” </em> the Doctor begs.</p>
<p>“The Matrix made me go through this a few times, before I got out,” he says.</p>
<p>A well-intentioned burial, placing a sapling on his corpse. Such a beautiful sentiment. He regenerated so many times with roots digging into his veins, dirt clogging his lungs, a hole in his chest that sent that beautiful golden power into the living wood.</p>
<p>The Child visited his grave every day, and told the tree how very special and beloved it was.</p>
<p>They got the Frayed out of the ground. Eventually. Mostly because the tree developed telepathy strong enough to notify people.</p>
<p>“How much of this is there?” the Doctor whispers.</p>
<p>“How long have Time Lords existed?” The Master shrugs. “The Division and any other relevant Time Lords don’t bother wiping the Frayed’s memories. They couldn’t even if they bothered, with how the confession dials work. You, they traumatize into regenerating all the way down to a baby - I’ll spare you those little sessions.” Particularly since it had been the Doctor over and over and over, when the Matrix tried to break him. “But <em> me? </em> The Frayed? I’m-”</p>
<p>The memories blur directly into the one he most wants to avoid, of course.</p>
<p>Two exhausted Time Lords, fully decked out in formal robes, stood in front of a glass case. Inside the case was what looked like clean tight rows of stretched string, each glowing the slightest bit. All but one. The rightmost thread looked more like tattered yarn bleeding gold, a brilliant erratic hiss compared to the other shining souls in the case.</p>
<p>“He’s going to snap at this rate, break even more,” one of the Time Lords said. It’s the more familiar one, the one who refused a young couple access to a loom.</p>
<p>Outside of the Citadel windows, explosions rained down onto Gallifrey.</p>
<p>The other Time Lord shook her head, and opened the case. She grabbed the Frayed with one fist, and hissed as the gold dripped onto her hand. “If the Frayed has held up for this long, it can handle one more loom. The Master is the perfect soldier for the Time War. Ruthless, brilliant, zero morals - that’s obviously why Rassilon wants him back so badly, this was practically the first thing he asked for when we brought him back! <em> And </em> it’s a kindness for the Child, the Doctor. He deserves it, considering what they’re asking of him.”</p>
<p>And ah, yes. Off they go. Now that it’s been said -</p>
<p>A flash. The same room, but different people. Usually loom-weavers.</p>
<p>“After last time, we should risk the strain on the Frayed so there’s a support system. For the Child’s sake,” an earnest Time Lord said, and pulled the Frayed out of the case.</p>
<p>Different people.</p>
<p>“Let’s give the Child a good time, eh? A reward, for his loyal service,” a Time Lady said with a wink, and pulled the Frayed out of the case.</p>
<p>Different people.</p>
<p>“Oh, come on, where’s your sense of romance?” a Time Lord said, and wore a soft smile when he pulled the Frayed out of the case. “You’ve heard the stories. They belong together.”</p>
<p>Different people.</p>
<p>“- a matched set, after all -”</p>
<p>Different people.</p>
<p>“- no, the Frayed can be killed, they just can’t <em> die- </em>die <em>, </em> they’re dead right now - they might be trapped in this very room <em> right now,</em> it’s a <em>ghooost </em>, wooo, how scary -”</p>
<p>Different people.</p>
<p>“- it’s a bit like a dog, really, something to keep track of the Child -“</p>
<p>Different people.</p>
<p>“- well why else would we keep it in the case? Why else would we keep it, full stop? Look at the state of the thing -”</p>
<p>The memories shift to a different room. Tecteun’s laboratory.</p>
<p>Tecteun kept a conveniently-sized corpse inside a conveniently located drawer, kept a nice cold temperature that left the slightest sheen of ice on her dead lab rat. She utilized the corpse for years, pumping the wrong types of chemicals into it.</p>
<p>The memory is stable enough that the Master can pretend it’s a deliberate choice to show the Doctor.</p>
<p>“You see, with the Frayed, Tecteun was focused on the idea of <em> not being dead, </em> rather than regeneration,” the Master says. He’s seen this before, so it’s not a surprise that she skipped from a scalpel to a much larger knife. “I do regenerate, obviously. Always do. Sometimes it’s in a timely sort of way, like you and the Time Lords - particularly the first 12 times, if a loom brings me back. I’m practically a real Time Lord for 13 faces. After that? Not so much.” </p>
<p>Tecteun sighed, and started opening up one of her older cuts. Dead or not, Tecteun had a habit of closing up incisions just enough to ensure the Child wouldn’t shriek and pass out if they ever went looking for socks in all the wrong places. What a wonderful and considerate mother.</p>
<p>“But my corpse was definitely pre-alpha testing, so regenerating can take <em> decades,</em> by which point my corpse might already be eaten by wolves. So it keeps me, my <em> thinking</em>-ness, in a sort of stasis. A nightmare I can’t wake up from, until the Division picks me up and decides you’ve had a bad few years and could use a present.”</p>
<p>“I…” The Doctor tries. She really does try. “You’re not any less of a person than I am.”</p>
<p>The Master doesn’t even look at her.</p>
<p>“I don’t know how to help you,” the Doctor whispers.</p>
<p>There are so many things he could say. So many suggestions, requests, demands.</p>
<p>
  <em> I think you can kill me, I think the universe would let me die if it was you, so would you do it? If I ask nicely? Pretty please? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Tell me why Theta didn’t say it back. </em>
</p>
<p><em> Would you </em> <b> <em>ever</em> </b> <em> choose me? </em></p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>In a practiced, efficient sort of way, Tecteun opened his chest. She checked, and confirmed that deep down nothing had changed. Still a child, two hearts, frozen and useless.</p>
<p>The Master says, “Just get out of my head.”</p>
<p>It isn’t surprising when she obeys. After all, it’s one more opportunity to run away from him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Start of Something Old</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>----</p>
<p>Sometimes, when the Master needs to calm down - and he <em> needs </em> to calm down - he goes back to a very small moment.</p>
<p>He’s Missy for this. Or he takes Missy’s place. But where Missy deliberately sat with a knife-sharp corseted posture capable of stabbing holes in plate armor 20 feet away, <em> today’s </em> Master has to fight the urge to slump against the keys of her piano. His fingers shake too much to even try and play.</p>
<p>Each regeneration has a corresponding Doctor. A match. And it’s funny, because the Master thought he would <em> never </em> get over this version. Missy’s version. The one who sits down at a companionable distance on the piano bench, and gives him (Missy) a quirk of a smile.</p>
<p>Even not knowing the Frayed’s nightmare type of immortality, if Missy’s Doctor had asked her to stab herself in the chest, she would’ve grabbed every knife she could get her hands on and asked him to pick. She would die for him. She <em> did </em> die for him. Because as severe as he may look, how ludicrous his eyebrows are, how disgustingly frumpy he looks when he starts wearing those hideous hoodies, Missy’s Doctor is the one who looks at him (her) and goes soft.</p>
<p>Missy’s Doctor is the one who sometimes smiles at him (her) like even being close is the highlight of his day.</p>
<p>Missy’s Doctor is the one who leans over to knock their shoulders together and comments, “You’ve been well-behaved recently.”</p>
<p>“Is it positive reinforcement time?” the Master asks, parroting Missy’s old words back because he likes where this conversation goes. He likes this road. He’s going to stay on it.</p>
<p>“It’s me trying <em> very </em> hard to not ask what you’re planning,” Missy’s Doctor says, and it’s in good fun, still smiling. Because he knows that this is just...how things go, with them. Missy’s Doctor does an exaggerated hand stretch, bushy eyebrows waggling at him (her). “Now! A good duet, I think. Or a duet, at least. No promises on quality.”</p>
<p>“An <em> attempt </em>at a duet?” the Master says, dry.</p>
<p>“I’m getting better! I’m - it’s getting better all the time!” Missy’s Doctor defends.</p>
<p>Calling him anything but <em> Missy’s </em> makes something uncomfortable claw at the Master’s throat. He’s doomed to always have a matched regeneration, but this one met multiple Masters. And what remains of Missy wraps around her partner, curled tight against every part of him she’s permitted to touch. <em> Mine, </em> Missy whispers, so overwhelming that often, like now, the Master steps away from his interaction in the memory to watch Missy, instead.</p>
<p>Missy rolls her eyes at her Doctor, and with a wicked twinkle, immediately starts plonking away the deceptive opening notes of The Beatles’s <em> Getting Better. </em> It sounds like a horror movie at the start. Laughing, Missy and her Doctor tear the song apart and piece it back together as a score worthy of any villainous creature slithering out to eat unsuspecting humans.</p>
<p>The younger memories, Koschei’s memories, hurt. But this, right here, with Missy’s Doctor singing along and adding in the occasional chaotic staccato, is so fucking happy it burns his hearts.</p>
<p>On some brief, stupid whim, the Master changes people’s places. He’s in Missy’s seat, and his own Doctor takes the place of Missy’s. Her eyes are as bright and face as full of gleeful goofy <em> fun </em> with a side of deviousness, and like Missy’s Doctor, she leans towards him.</p>
<p>With Missy’s Doctor, the leaning is a shared laugh, a rude joke he whispers into Missy’s ear that she can spin off, see how hard she can make him laugh. It’s an invitation to play.</p>
<p>With <em> his </em> Doctor, the second she leans close, any pretense of amiable platonic friendship evaporates. There’s - he could try a joke, maybe. Probably not. It’s hard to think of anything funny when she’s close enough to kiss. If nothing’s trying to kill them, including each other, it’s hard to think of anything <em> but </em> kissing her.</p>
<p>“I hate you,” his Doctor says, staring him in the eye, fierce and furious, because that’s the only reason why she gets close.</p>
<p>Or is it?</p>
<p>The Master couldn’t break eye contact even if he wanted to. She won’t let him. His hand hovers dangerously close to her cheek, her hair, and he <em> dares </em> to brush her hair behind an ear, feels her pulse speed up.</p>
<p>The Doctor smells like cheap generic soap and expensive men’s shampoo.</p>
<p>He doesn’t do this often, the not-quite-memory fantasy thing. Because he’s not stupid. And he shouldn’t risk one of his favorite memories, shouldn’t-</p>
<p>Oh, fuck it.</p>
<p>“Prove it,” the Master says.</p>
<p>The Doctor slams their lips together so hard it nearly breaks his nose. She shoves him back, and the cacophony of the Master’s shoulders and elbows flailing across the keys is <em> nothing </em>compared to the deafening rasp of the Doctor’s breathing, the tiny groan when he tugs at her hair. She shoves him back again, and he’s about to scold her about breaking toys when he realizes it wasn’t shoving him back so much as needing a bit more room to straddle his lap when they’re on a piano bench.</p>
<p>The Master makes a noise more suited to getting a knife in the back.</p>
<p>Her body presses against him, her teeth nip at his neck, and the Master has to freeze everything for the sake of self-preservation.</p>
<p>Missy can keep her Doctor, because there is <em> nothing </em> the Master wants more than this feral hurricane brave and stupid enough to climb on top of him at even the hint of an invitation. And that can’t just be his imagination. No, he’s noticed it, he’s perceptive, he <em> knows </em> she wants him just as bad.</p>
<p>Whatever is between him and his Doctor is not nice. It’s consuming, a continent-spanning forest burning down at a record pace. No survivors. Nobody cared enough to check. Who possibly could, when the Doctor is there to focus on?</p>
<p>“I remind you, dear, this memory is after a good number of decades getting to know each other,” he can hear Missy say, leaning against the side of the piano, watching.</p>
<p>He seriously doubts his Doctor would tolerate him for a few days, let alone decades.</p>
<p>“Tolerate and want are very different things,” Saxon whispers. Because he had a year of the Doctor at his mercy, a version desperate to provide forgiveness in the hopes of receiving it himself. What he found most enjoyable was making the Doctor <em> want, </em> and never get. It was mutually miserable, but worth the cost.</p>
<p>Admittedly, there were some...incidents, because of course there were, but overall he kept to the policy that he wanted to make the Doctor as miserable as possible.</p>
<p>Now, he does <em> not. </em></p>
<p>He doesn’t quite know what he wants. There’s a level of lust that feels bizarre when they’re both over 2000 years old (and more), there’s rage and hatred like burning bile trapped in his throat, there’s an even more bizarre urge to comb her hair and eat fruit together and gossip about people they knew and places they’ve been. He wants to kill Tecteun for her. He wants to destroy Gallifrey all over again, for them. He wants anything and everything, and wants to shut his eyes and just <em> die, </em> with her by his side, going together.</p>
<p><em> That’s new for us, </em> Missy whispers, because there’s a difference between being willing to die with someone and actively <em> wanting it. </em></p>
<p>The Doctor - <em> his </em> Doctor - is still on top of him. And his fantasy turns into a nightmare, because she’s softer, and holding him tight. Like she needs him. Like he’s something special.</p>
<p>His imagined-up Doctor gets through one syllable of the Master’s true name, and he pulls out of his own mind so fast and frantically that he is only <em> aware </em> for a second.</p>
<p>For long enough to look into the Doctor’s eyes, hovering over him.</p>
<p>And the Master inelegantly drops to the floor in a very mockable fainting spell.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The blinding blue-white lights of the TARDIS infirmary nearly burn the Master’s retinas when he wakes up, silent.</p>
<p>It doesn’t save him from Captain Jack <em> Fucking </em> Harkness saying, “Doctor, he’s awake.”</p>
<p>“Why is that <em> thing </em> still here,” the Master groans, because he knows the Doctor finds Jack’s very existence just as distasteful. It’s like having a walking talking embodiment of nails on a chalkboard ambling around the TARDIS, pining in a casually unrequited kind of way. Jack doesn’t have a chance and accepts it, because that’s just How Things Are.</p>
<p>(The Master doesn’t get jealous about how many people fall in love with the Doctor. It’s actually kind of hilarious by this point. He once considered procuring a stopwatch and timing how long they last.)</p>
<p>Jack says, “Because I don’t trust you to be alone with the Doctor.”</p>
<p>“Then she can pick up the fam or someone, <em> anyone </em> else,” he says.</p>
<p>“I’m also not afraid of you,” Jack says.</p>
<p>The Master considers jumping off the bed towards him, shouting <em> boo </em>. Or he’d shoot Jack in the head again, but they took his coat. And vest. And half the buttons of his shirt, with an excuse of very 21st century Earth-looking electrodes stuck on his hearts. When he feels around his skull, yep, they’re on his temples and forehead too. He immediately pulls all of them off.</p>
<p>“You were unconscious for 30 hours,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p>She sits on a stool out of arm’s reach. She’s quiet, and sounds borderline <em> soft, </em> and when their eyes meet, the softness remains. It’s the softness of regret.</p>
<p>There are a few reactions the Master’s brain could choose from, here. A wide variety of things to catch on. Maybe he could even try to pick.</p>
<p>But his mind cheerily reminds him of the Doctor standing in a drawing room and ignoring their younger selves, victorious for outsmarting the Master, crowing, <em> “You’re not going to risk throwing shields up in </em> <b> <em>this </em> </b> <em> memory.” </em> </p>
<p>Bloody, unholy <em> rage </em> explodes through him, and the Master lunges off the propped up medical bed with a snarl. He’s not fast enough, or they predicted this, because Jack grabs him from behind before the Master can dig his nails into the Doctor’s skin and rip her apart. But if they think he’s going to give up from this they are <em> very </em> wrong, and he drops towards the floor. Jack curses, hands scrambling to grab him, but the Master’s been escaping situations far more difficult for a very, very long time.</p>
<p>He has another advantage, too.</p>
<p>As Jack gets a better hold on him (mostly because the Master lets him), the Master gets his hands on Jack’s neck, and <em> twists. </em> The freak’s body goes limp, and the Master slaps his arms away because his corpse isn’t dropping to the floor quite fast enough.</p>
<p>The Doctor hasn’t so much as twitched a finger to try and help Jack. It’s <em> insulting, </em> how she just sits there and looks sad. Resigned, she asks, “Is this you trying to kill me or kiss me?”</p>
<p>“Oh, very much kill,” the Master says, and grabs her by the throat.</p>
<p>If he <em> really </em> wants to hurt her, he should go to Sheffield and have a bit of fun, gather up her fam and not kill them, oh no, it’s best to humiliate them in the ways that hurt most. Make them suffer. Make them <em> hate her, </em> because she didn’t come to the rescue.</p>
<p>That’s what breaks them fastest. They save so many people, adventuring with the Doctor, and when it’s their turn? Nothing. A brief flash of light, blink and you’ll miss it. Realizing they’re just one more empty scream into the dark.</p>
<p>He got used to that fact a <em> long </em>time ago.</p>
<p>If you want the Doctor to pay attention, the more screams the better.</p>
<p>The Master’s voice is rougher than he’d like when he says, “There was a line. For two <em> thousand </em> years, I haven’t crossed that line, Doctor, haven’t even <em> mentioned </em> the line. Not ever. Not in one single fight.”</p>
<p>Her eyes go wide.</p>
<p>“You didn’t know,” he breathes out, and it’s like his brain <em> snaps </em> as he realizes, “You thought it’s the Frayed I’m mad about?” And he’s laughing. “Yes, of <em> course </em> it’s the thing neither of us had a say in. Of course that’s why I want to murder you now! After all, I did go <em> directly </em> to <em> you </em> instead of destroying the entirety of a civilization built on <em> your suffering </em> when I found out!”</p>
<p>The Doctor grabs onto his wrist, and it is pure self-preservation that has the Master pulling his arm away - he does <em> not </em> want her in his head again. Ever again. She gasps for air, leaning back, <em> staring </em> at him in a way that makes him want to smash her head in with the closest blunt object.</p>
<p>She swallows, and says, “There <em> was </em>a line. You’re right.”</p>
<p>“What if you’d <em> broken it?” </em> he snarls, and the Master means to start pacing, but instead it’s just a stumbling twirl because he needs to <em> look </em> at her. It’s fury and panic and she’s the only person who might understand. “What if <em> we’re </em> in there now, mucking it all up forever? I <em> cannot </em> lose - if you broke it, I will drag you through a minefield <em> face first-” </em></p>
<p>A needle jabs into his back.</p>
<p><em> “Jack!” </em> the Doctor snaps, and is <em> finally </em> touching him of her own free will, even if it’s to get a hold of his quickly-slumping body.</p>
<p>“It’s a tranquilizer, Doctor, he’ll be fine,” the freak says. He’s much faster than he used to be, with the reviving thing. Captain Jack Harkness makes the Frayed look like a piece of shit, which is accurate but he hates the idea that <em> Jack </em> is the one making him look that way.</p>
<p>What a genuinely hilarious surprise. Captain Jack Harkness <em> does </em> have the courage to stab him in the back.</p>
<p>“I didn’t tell him to do this,” the Doctor is saying, alternating between glaring at Jack and frowning at the Master. “This wasn’t me, I’m - you <em> deserve </em> to be upset, Master. I’m sorry. I didn’t ask for this.”</p>
<p>The Master’s words are slurred and bitter as he says, “You don’t need to ask. Your dogs <em> always </em>bite.”</p>
<p>“This was a <em> mistake, </em> it won’t happen again,” the Doctor insists. “I promise.”</p>
<p>He laughs as he falls because ah yes, as ever, there they are. The two most meaningless words to ever come out of the Doctor’s mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>The Doctor is the only version of the Timeless Child (other than the first) to find out what they really are, as far as he can tell. But the Master isn’t the only version of the Frayed to find out.</p>
<p>It was relatively recent, about 9000 years ago. She went by Kez. Kezrellix to close friends. And to absolutely nobody’s surprise, a Matrix-wiped emptiness of another Time Lord knew her full name.</p>
<p>Kez liked to kill things. She liked to <em> ruin </em> things, liked tearing galaxies apart for the hell of it, and she never stopped unless she was back home, on Gallifrey, with the blank nothingness his mind oh so helpfully filled in with Missy’s Doctor. They had children the biological way, mostly because Kez was a risk-taker and apparently that included whether or not she’d get pregnant. And while Kez was a tsunami of recklessness and disaster, she <em> did </em> care about her kids.</p>
<p>Each and every one of them died in an unfortunate accident before they made it to 20 years old.</p>
<p>A permanent death when someone is in their very first body is <em> unusual, </em> to say the least. It requires something big, something <em> very </em> big, something that can break apart a Time Lord’s entire being. So it’s things like getting vaporized, or getting killed with something so potent it shuts down the body’s ability to regenerate. <em> One </em> person dying like that was noteworthy, let alone children. Let alone multiple of the same couple’s children.</p>
<p>Kez assumed it was something or someone out for revenge, but couldn’t for the life of her figure out who on Gallifrey she had hurt. She kept her habits to herself, always indulged off-world and out of timeline because she and the not-Doctor had an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ policy. But <em> who? </em> These were Time Lords, nobody <em> cared </em> what she was doing unless they felt like writing a memo about it for temporary-historical archiving.</p>
<p>It was when her not-Doctor went missing that Kez went truly ballistic. She caused more regenerations than anyone but...well, <em> herself, </em> later on, as she stormed the Citadel screaming for answers and more than willing to kill for them. Eager to do it, even.</p>
<p>And she got the answers.</p>
<p>They sent Kez into the Matrix, where she dove so deeply she found the truth he did. She reacted even worse than the Master. Unfortunately, the Division had snuck in and killed her body for the remaining three regenerations, and the only place her mind had to go was a confession dial. It took almost 300 years for Kez to give up, to spin herself into a thread she truly understood the meaning of. </p>
<p>Kezrellixathadusilivendae was the first thread to not just be frayed and tattered and ready to snap, but also leak energy. Like tiny golden tears, weeping forever.</p>
<p>The loom-weavers were fools for thinking the weeping was sadness. It was tears of all-consuming <em> rage, </em> and they wove the Frayed back into existence over and over again because oh, didn’t they want to be together? Wouldn’t that make the Child happy? Wouldn’t that make the <em> Frayed </em> happy?</p>
<p>The Frayed had to be so completely destroyed to reach Kez’s level of recklessness and devotion that it took billions of years for any version to find out. And after that, it was just a matter of time until another version of the Frayed wandered in. Ideally, one who was devoted, and clever, and reckless, and patient enough to outlast the Matrix. One who could make them pay, because Kez never got the chance.</p>
<p>When the Matrix was forcing him to re-live the Frayed’s life over and over again, Kez was the only one he didn’t speed through. Kez was the one he reveled in. The one who would’ve made Gallifrey even bloodier than him.</p>
<p>“Really, you should be <em> grateful </em> it’s me,” he told the Matrix the third go-around, and lingered on her rage, and her oath to <em> make them pay. </em> And when the Master destroyed the Time Lords, he almost felt like he could hear Kez’s delighted laughter echoing behind him.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> This </em> time, the Master comes to consciousness in a nice armchair that happens to be deadlocked to the floor of the TARDIS’s upper deck of the console room. There’s a small table next to him, with Missy’s favorite tea set brewed and ready, accompanied by such a wide assortment of sugar and honey and milk that it politely implies, <em> I know you’re not Missy</em>.</p>
<p>He can hear the Doctor and, yes, the freak is still there, speaking quietly on the other side of the frankly <em> intolerably </em> cavernous room.</p>
<p>There’s also a subtle yet heavy hum of energy coming from his ankle. Specifically, the anklet, no, the <em> shackle </em>he’s got on now.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, Doctor, please, this is just <em> too much </em> gratitude for me breaking you out of prison. I simply can’t accept this generous gift,” he says, more than loud enough for them to hear over the TARDIS wheezing its way through the vortex. “After all, I asked you for <em> so much </em> in return!”</p>
<p>“You’re a mass murderer who had a <em> control ring,” </em> Jack says with an unexpected lack of hostility - more a list of unpleasant facts than anything else. “Which, by the way, is destroyed and removed. No more mind control.”</p>
<p>“Should’ve saved everyone time and just implanted it into me instead,” the Master says, and glares down at the anklet.</p>
<p>“A dimensional shackle and <em> mind control </em> are nowhere near the same thing,” Jack says.</p>
<p>He stretches and sighs, ignoring Jack in favor of watching the Doctor, who is watching him right back. The Master gives her a polite, O-appropriate smile, empathetic and caring. She looks uncomfortable, so he goes full sweet apology, with puppy eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Doctor. If you’re waiting for me to turn into Missy, you’ve got your regenerations mixed up.”</p>
<p>“You helped me, and I’m going to help you,” the Doctor says. Oh, the conviction. How regrettable. But she’s rocking on her feet, nodding to herself. “Right. So. Dimensional shackle, so you’re phased in with me and can’t do any clever space-time tricks. You’ve got free run of the TARDIS, except specifically around the console area, inside the pillars. You’re clever, so the console’s bio-locked too.”</p>
<p>The Master’s not particularly worried about <em> that </em> part. The TARDIS owes him, for emergency repairs and saving the Doctor. That’s a guaranteed trip with no need to do anything but make the box feel guilty. He won’t even touch the console.</p>
<p>She waves a hand towards Jack. “And he’ll be leaving, once we land. My fam’ll be coming onboard, and then <em> they </em> will keep reminding me you’re...you know.” She waves a hand at him.</p>
<p>“Your devilishly brilliant husband?” he supplies, bright and helpful, because <em>she started it.</em> The word is far from an accurate translation, but it gets the point across better when there’s a human-ish thing in the room.</p>
<p>The Doctor twitches in a way that could be either a suppressed laugh <em> or </em> a wince. Or maybe both.</p>
<p>Despite the freak’s clear and comfortable acceptance of the fact the Doctor doesn’t love him back, Jack still feels the need to say, “<em>Ex-</em>husband, though. Right?”</p>
<p>She doesn’t say anything.</p>
<p>“If that’s what she’d like,” the Master says, mildly. Like it’s amusing. Just one more thing to tease the Doctor about, with a subtle suggestion that the subject’s a bit below the belt when it comes to even their most brutal variety of banter.</p>
<p>What the Master does <em> not </em>say is that he couldn’t ‘divorce’ the Doctor even if he wanted to. With the fucked up manner of their lopsided marriage, the Doctor can come and go as desired. But for the Master, the answer is always, yes. He is married. Yes, he loves his spouse. Uncontrollably. Eternally.</p>
<p>“It’s complicated,” the Doctor says, and then deliberately focuses on Jack. “Weird Time Lord stuff, you know how it is. And it’s not always, you know, kissy-kissy marriage, it doesn’t mean that sort of thing, necessarily! After all, you’re going to <em> literally </em> turn into different people, so getting married’s a bit quirky.”</p>
<p>Being a spiteful, bitter bitch, the Master stands up, walks a bit closer, and says with a soft sort of hope, “Unless you actually mean it. Like I did.”</p>
<p><em> “Okay, </em> Sheffield, Graham’s house, here we are!” the Doctor says, in a way that screams she’s psychically <em> begging </em> the TARDIS to save her from this conversation and land early. Which, of course, the TARDIS does, and the Doctor jogs towards the doors with an ever-brightening smile. “Be right back!”</p>
<p>And off she goes, flinging the doors open and sliding out to meet her current favorite batch of pets.</p>
<p>When she’s out, Jack asks, “When did you get married? Was this some sort of...childhood arranged marriage thing?”</p>
<p>The Master drops the O facade and goes back to being himself, and can’t help the laughter at <em> that </em> idea - imagining his father looking at <em> Theta Sigma </em> and saying, ‘Yes, what a fine match for my child, I will encourage this.’ He has to wipe tears out of his eyes before he can say, “No, <em> god </em> no, my father thought he was a disgrace. No, it’s our own fault.”</p>
<p><em> Our wives, on the other hand, </em> he considers saying.</p>
<p>Jack clearly has more questions, but he thinks better of asking them. He also thinks better of letting the Master get within grabbing distance, and instead of engaging, the freak gives him a brief acknowledging nod, and then walks out the door. Shutting it behind himself, of course.</p>
<p>When the Master approaches the door, he can feel a warning buzz of energy numbing his ankle, just the slightest bit. He frowns up at the TARDIS console. “I’m not trying to leave, I’m trying to <em> eavesdrop.”</em> The buzzing lessens, but doesn’t stop. So, the Master adds raised eyebrows and, “You know, like <em> you </em>do when even the slightest bit of telepathy happens?”</p>
<p>There’s a <em> bwee </em> noise, and the buzzing stops.</p>
<p>An understanding. Maybe a bit of an apology - even the TARDIS knows the Doctor went too far.</p>
<p>“Tell me what you’d like fixed later,” the Master offers. After fixing her up to go rescue the Doctor, the TARDIS doesn’t even take it as an insult to her beloved pilot. Instead, one of the claw-like columns pulses white once, twice, and then goes back to a warm yellow. He nods. “Consider it done when we’re next in the vortex.”</p>
<p>And when he puts his ear against her door, the TARDIS ensures every sound is crystal clear.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, the crystal clear sound he hears is three humans saying one word: <em> Dalek. </em></p>
<p>He hears the Doctor’s gasp.</p>
<p>He hears the humans trying to give her information, and ask questions of her. Even Jack asks questions, which is a shame, since the Master thought the freak knew who he was dealing with. Or <em> what </em>, at least.</p>
<p>Outside of the TARDIS, the Doctor’s blood must be pulsing so loudly it’s almost impossible to process <em> any </em> language, let alone four frantic aliens shouting the mental equivalent of Gallifreyan baby talk at her. She’s remembering every experience with a Dalek. Every life they took, every robotic cackle, every shout of <em> exterminate </em> as their people, their <em> children, </em> fell out of the stars. And the humans just keep on making noise at her.</p>
<p>The Master gives her something to hear, a message she’ll understand. Four short, sharp knocks on the door.</p>
<p>On the other side of the door, the humans go silent.</p>
<p>He knocks again. And again. And <em> again, </em> the sound, the <em> fucking </em> drums, it’s a call for both of them. The drums of war. The rage. The anger, and the wrath, this is the <em> one time </em> they both feel it, the one situation when they’re the <em> same and the Doctor knows it </em> -</p>
<p>The door opens when he’s already about to knock, and the Master’s knuckles end up grazing over her cheek. Which is much better than smacking her in the nose. But he now has the problem of frantic heartbeats while in physical contact with the Doctor, also with an audience.</p>
<p><em> Opportunity knocks, </em> he thinks, just loud enough that she’ll hear it if she’s listening. From the dazed and barely-subdued bloodlust in her eyes, she’s not.</p>
<p>“Let me join you,” he says in Gallifreyan, because it’s not for the humans. They don’t understand. They’re not physically capable of understanding how very beautiful the Doctor is, how resplendent she can become.</p>
<p>The Doctor’s eyes clear just enough for her to sanitize the smile that spreads across her face. She’s cleaning up her expressions for the sake of her pets, and he <em> hates </em> it. But while her expression goes to something human-friendly, her words stay in Gallifreyan, eyes fixed in his. “I want it alive.”</p>
<p>The Gallifreyan implies <em> alive </em> to be a temporary state, soon to be changed, by her.</p>
<p>Really, how many times can he fall in love with the same person?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Nudist Day Spa of the Daleks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Listen, Doc, I know you hate Daleks,” Graham begins, and doesn’t get much further than that because the Master starts laugh-choking on his tea because of that <em>hilarious</em> understatement. The fam looks at the Master as if he’s insane (wow, what a change), and Jack gives him a look that is very clearly <em>you aren’t helping.</em> He grins back through the coughing, because no, he is not.</p>
<p>“Ignore him,” the Doctor instructs the humans, already scanning for Dalek DNA on Earth.</p>
<p>“Well, he’s my point,” Graham continues like the brave idiot he is. The Doctor certainly has a type. “I remember what happened last time there was a Dalek, so I just worry that he’s going to be a bad influence on you in an already bad situation.”</p>
<p>It’s Yaz, surprisingly, who speaks up. She’s glaring daggers at the Master, but she says, “Does seem useful to have around now, though. He seems good at killing things.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m one of the best. But Daleks are <em>her</em> speciality,” the Master says. And yes, he sounds lovestruck and doting and gleeful, but he is blameless in this because <em>fucking look at her.</em> The Doctor’s back is taut and her steps are more like a feline march. It’s beautiful. The Doctor has always been breathtaking when the ‘Oncoming Storm’ (he loves that one) part of her steps up.</p>
<p>“I’m getting a reading in Osaka, or roundabouts, and it looks like Robertson owns a facility there,” the Doctor says, completely disregarding every word out of Graham’s well-intentioned mouth.</p>
<p>“Then I’ll investigate while you deal with Robertson directly,” Jack says.</p>
<p>Yaz says, “I’ll come too.”</p>
<p>“We’ll drop you off on the way, then,” the Doctor says with a nod. There’s that feverish dedication in her eyes. Eyes still on the console, she adds, “I’m sending the Master with you.”</p>
<p><em>“What?”</em> every other person in the TARDIS says. Including the Master.</p>
<p>“If there <em>is</em> a Dalek, the Master will make sure it stays there, and he’ll make sure I know about it,” the Doctor tells her humans. “He’s a Time Lord, he understands what we’re dealing with.”</p>
<p>With a frustrated noise, the Master points towards Jack. “Even <em>I</em> trust the freak to take a Dalek seriously! And Yaz is the smart one of your current batch, so-”</p>
<p>The Doctor looks him in the eye, and switches to Gallifreyan <em>yet again,</em> which is probably a record number of times around any of her humans. “I want it alive. And I know you’ll give me that.”</p>
<p>And <em>hm,</em> that does make a bit of sense. A single Dalek, on her very favorite planet? It’s a prime opportunity to play with one - something she doesn’t want the humans to know.</p>
<p>It’s also an excellent way to make the Master go along with her plan. A strong suggestion of future reward after good <em>obedient</em> behavior. Plus, since it’s Gallifreyan, nobody else can understand the implied promise. What she’s both offering and asking for.</p>
<p>“Two conditions,” the Master says, translatable so the humans can listen. It’s always nice to have accountability when making a deal with the Doctor, since the best leverage possible is the disapproval of her pets. “You have to trust me instead of using this ridiculous anklet, and you come get me before doing anything big.”</p>
<p>The fam probably thinks he wants to watch over the Doctor.</p>
<p>Jack probably knows the Master just wants to watch, period.</p>
<p>“Swear you’ll behave,” the Doctor says. They went over the criteria for <em>behaving</em> plenty when he was Missy, so there’s no need for her to list out the seventy How To Be Good rules yet again.</p>
<p>It’s an opportunity that he can’t pass up. He really can’t. “I swear to behave until the Dalek is safely in your custody, at which point <em>you </em>stop pretending to follow all those rules of yours.”</p>
<p>The Doctor nods, which means more from her than <em>I promise</em> ever will. She presses a switch on the console, and while the barely-visible shimmer around the TARDIS console remains, the shackle pops right off his leg. Translatable this time because it doesn’t have the truth behind it this way, the Doctor says, “I want it alive.”</p>
<p>He smiles at her. Just for her. “Then I’d better go get my coat.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>Gallifreyan, High Gallifreyan, or, perish the thought, <em>Old High</em> Gallifreyan, has enough tenses that people attempting to learn the language tend to give up after trying to understand the thirteenth variety of present tense. When sharing current facts in <em>basic</em> Gallifreyan, such as <em>this is a rock</em>, there are six concepts of present tense (more or less - there’s quite a few wobbly then-and-now and now-and-future tenses too).</p><ol>
<li>Personal-timeline-experience. The most common when speaking about personal events. <em>To me, this is a rock.</em>
</li>
<li>Universal-fixed-point-experience. Somewhat pretentious, usually reserved for Important Things. Teachers and professors liked this one. <em>This is a rock, because a rock is supposed to be there.</em>
</li>
<li>General current timeline as the speaker is aware of it. The ‘timey-wimey’ present tense. The most common when speaking about impersonal events. <em>Seems like this is a rock.</em>
</li>
<li>General timeline not yet personally experienced. Somewhat disdainful. There’s the implication of a dry ‘or so I’m told’ at the end of every sentence. <em>This is a rock, supposedly. Or so I’m told.</em>
</li>
<li>Related to the person (or TARDIS) being spoken to, relating to their personal timeline. The tense for questioning. <em>To you, this is a rock.</em>
</li>
<li>An ultimatum. An unshakeable fact that supplants past and future tenses, less a present tense and more of a tense for eternity. It’s for curses, and prayers, and the kind of thing you’re willing to kill for. <em>I swear, forever, this is a rock. Fight me.</em>
</li>
</ol>
<p>Guess which one Missy dared to use when she said, “I am your friend.”</p>
<p>Guess which one Koschei decided was a <em>great</em> idea to use when he got married.</p>
<p>And guess which one he has never, not even once, heard come out of the Doctor’s mouth.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s a dark and frigid night in Osaka, and humans have no idea how good a (not-quite-)Time Lord’s hearing is. The Master stays a few lengths ahead of them for at least the illusion of privacy. He doesn’t know if Jack is trying to commiserate or reassure Yaz about falling in love with the Doctor, or maybe just warn her, but he leaves them to it.</p>
<p>Or he does until Yaz raises her voice and asks him, “When did she leave you?”</p>
<p>There are <em>so many</em> responses to that, and so many of them would leave poor little Yaz quite hurt. He says with honest amusement, “It’s different.”</p>
<p>“How?” Yaz demands. Jack mutters for her to <em>quit while you’re ahead,</em> but the Doctor sure does like them young and brave to the point of stupid. Jack probably got her wound up too, so no chance for sweet consolation when the Master is around.</p>
<p>Again - so many responses to give. Still, he should try to be...cooperative. <em>Explain things to the humans,</em> Missy was instructed. Ugh. He takes a breath. “Yes, the Doctor left. There was no dignified excuse to stop him, and the Doctor is...well. The Doctor.”</p>
<p>He can hear Jack repeat, mostly to himself, “Dignified?”</p>
<p>“I <em>know</em>,” the Master agrees, nose scrunching in distaste at the thought. “I still thought other people’s opinions mattered, but we were still young. Barely 400.”</p>
<p>It’s true that the older someone gets, the less they care about decorum. Add in becoming a renegade Time Lord and spending time as a semi-decomposed corpse, and you get...well. You get someone who hacks into the Matrix, which is the sacred depository of all ancestors and the closest thing Time Lords have (had) to religion, and then rummages around, just for fun.</p>
<p>Also, he was naive enough to think the Doctor might come back.</p>
<p>Yaz continues to try and bash her way into making the Master feel bad, with all the subtlety of a whale in a swimming pool. “Was that when you turned into a crazy murder person?”</p>
<p>“No, I’ve always been a crazy murder person,” the Master says, unrepentant. He doesn’t like something about how Yaz says <em>crazy</em>, even if it’s true. But he’s behaving. “And the Doctor’s known about it since the day we met.”</p>
<p>Koschei, huddling in a ball in a corner and clutching at his head. Theta, running for his life, and stopping because there was someone he could try to help and that’s always been the Doctor’s favorite coping mechanism. Repress, evade, distract from the pain by doing as much good as possible to balance it out.</p>
<p>The exhaustion pounces on him like a tiger in the dark.</p>
<p>Why couldn’t she just <em>do it,</em> for once? All that work he put in, and the Doctor still didn’t do it.</p>
<p>He made sure it’d be heroic. He set <em>everything</em> up, created something so horrifying the Doctor had no choice but to destroy it and left the method of that destruction waiting for her, practically put a bow on top of the death particle for her. Her pets were safe, there was nobody else around. It was just <em>them</em>. Everything was perfect. It was fucking <em>perfect,</em> a noble denouement, a fitting end to everything where they’d be obliterated in one swift and (probably) painless moment, and the Doctor still refused.</p>
<p>He doesn’t know what else he can do. Not to take them down together. If that didn’t work, what ever would?</p>
<p>Is it <em>hopeless?</em></p>
<p>“What happened to him?” Yaz asks.</p>
<p>The Master is slumped on one of the metal steps, forehead pressed against a cold steel railing.</p>
<p>“It’s not new,” Jack says, close enough to grab and strangle. Beat him to death. “Give him time, he’ll get back up. But he might be dangerous.”</p>
<p>“Would you let me kill you to get it out of my system?” the Master asks him.</p>
<p>“I think keeping it in your system might be pretty useful right now,” Jack says, and winks.</p>
<p>The Master glares at him, because he <em>refuses</em> to actually like the freak. He can’t find the energy to stay annoyed. He shuts his eyes again and stays slumped, head going empty except for the exhaustion and the Doctor, over and over again, taking away the only hope he had and saying <em>I am so much more than you.</em></p>
<p>“The Doctor said he put the memories of every Time Lord to ever live in his head, and then added the Cyberium to it,” Jack says after a while longer. “Then the Cyberium tore out of his brain, so...” Jack makes an exploding noise.</p>
<p>And <em>that </em>bit of irritation is enough to let the Master stand up and stretch the kinks out of his neck, his back. “Alright, get the door open.” He needs to hurt something. Feel something. <em>Be</em> something. But the Doctor said she wants the Dalek alive, so she’ll get it alive.</p>
<p>Jack nods, and completely bypasses the keypad next to the door, instead shooting a squareness gun at the sheet of metal. Soon enough they’re inside the building that’s meant to be a vertical farm, and it’s...hm. No. The deeper they get in, the more wrong things are. The humans pull out flashlights, and the Master sniffs at the air. Licks a finger and holds it up, <em>focusing</em>.</p>
<p>He remembers Missy’s lessons on Traveling With Humans, which included sharing threatening information - or just threats? Or information? Information about threats? - so he says, “Whatever they’re farming, it’s not plants.” He pauses. “Or they’re just <em>really bad</em> at farming plants. Unsurprising, since there’s nobody here either. Very understaffed.”</p>
<p>“How do you know that from licking your finger?” Yaz asks.</p>
<p>“Photosynthesis. Your plants eat carbon dioxide, so they should be feeding the plants, obviously. But instead of extra carbon dioxide, there’s a higher than Earth-normal amount of <em>argon,</em> which…”</p>
<p>Hm.</p>
<p>Wait.</p>
<p><em>“Oh,”</em> he breathes out. And <em>grins,</em> heading towards the first set of doors he can find because this is going to be interesting. Wait! Threatening information, <em>right</em>, so he pivots with a snap of his fingers to give a very brief explanation. “We’re breathing a loose mimicry of Skaro’s atmosphere.” Jack looks appropriately horrified, but Yaz continues to be oblivious so he goes even more basic. “Skaro’s the Dalek homeworld. Which means at the <em>very</em> least a Dalek is in control of the ventilation system, meaning likely in control of the entire building.” He frowns at the floor. “Daleks don’t need atmospheric control, they’re adaptable, not to mention always have - <em>hm.”</em> The Master puts a hand on his hip. “My immediate thought is a naked Dalek spa, but that’s a bit...off.”</p>
<p>“Yaz, call the Doctor, let her know what’s going on,” Jack says.</p>
<p>“Tell her what, that there’s a <em>nudist Dalek day spa</em> in Japan?” Yaz says. She throws her hands up in frustration. “Our only lead is a crazy person licking his finger!”</p>
<p>“Don’t call me crazy,” the Master says. Which wasn’t his intended reply. But Yaz doesn’t know anything about <em>anything</em> he’s lived through and she - it’s <em>different</em>, when she says it, makes his insides churn and spine go cold.</p>
<p>Yaz begins with a scoff, clearly about to double down on her words, but stops. After a moment, she nods, and looks away. “Alright,” she says, and clears her throat. “But you <em>did</em> just lick your finger and start...saying stuff.”</p>
<p>The Master takes a deep, <em>deeeeeep</em> breath. “Yaz. Listen. You see, Yaz, I am <em>trying</em> to behave how the Doctor feels is appropriate. I really am. But you are making it much more difficult. So if you could at least <em>try</em> to not antagonize me, an <em>actual antagonist</em>, I would appreciate it.”</p>
<p>Yaz nods.</p>
<p>“Stay here. Call the Doctor,” the Master tells Yaz. And again, <em>again,</em> she looks ready to fight him. No killing humans, no maiming humans, no hypnotizing humans, fine. He shakes his head, and does his damnedest to not mock her as he follows the <em>explain things to the humans</em> guideline. “Our group consists of an unkillable Time Agent, a 2000-year-old Time Lord, and <em>you</em>, Yasmin Khan, police in training, who once complained to me about how often you’re stuck talking on your little radio.”</p>
<p>It’s very clear that she does <em>not</em> like the reminder of sitting around with O and chatting about her job, her life, delighting in his bright-eyed wonder about traveling the stars with the Doctor. Yaz felt like it was so special, <em>she</em> was so special - after all, how many humans got to travel with the Doctor? How many people got to <em>share their lives</em> with the Doctor?</p>
<p>He really should invest in that heartbreak stopwatch.</p>
<p>“Alright,” the Master says. “Now. Dalek in a hot tub, army of squid Cybermen, whatever is in there, it doesn’t matter. Follow my lead, do what I say, and just don’t be stupid.”</p>
<p>A very strange look crosses Jack’s face, but it passes quickly enough. Squareness gun in hand, Jack nods, and waits for the actual <em>go</em> signal.</p>
<p>“I want to at least poke my head in before calling,” Yaz says.</p>
<p><em>“Fine,”</em> the Master snaps, because maybe, just maybe, she’ll actually do what he’s been telling her to do for the past twelve days. Okay, some hyperbole there. But it feels that way. Not even bothering to hide the irritation anymore, he waves a hand at Jack. “Go, get shot first.”</p>
<p>Dry, Jack says, “It’s what I’m here for.” He winks companionably, and slides inside like this is some sort of elite combat team insertion maneuver.</p>
<p>He’s starting to wonder if the freak somehow forgot about the Master snapping his neck. Or shooting him in the head. Or torturing him for a year straight.</p>
<p>There’s no gunfire or <em>EXTERMINATE!</em> so the Master leisurely walks through the doors.</p>
<p>Inside, the light is green. It comes from the lime green Dalek gestation chambers, row upon row all the way up the central tower. Why green - chlorophyll, possibly. Unlikely to raise eyebrows, and with a bit of clever twisting, it could probably be substituted for a maturing Dalek’s natural need for Skaro-grown kelkar.</p>
<p>Meaning these are mutants. Genetically engineered, altered Daleks. Daleks made from Earth juice instead of Skaro juice, deliberately.</p>
<p>By a Dalek.</p>
<p>On purpose.</p>
<p>Yaz and Jack are next to him, staring up at the tower.</p>
<p>The Master says, “The spa made more sense.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Master likes Yaz, for as much as he likes humans. Really, he does. He likes that she’s clever, adventurous, dedicated, and will die for the Doctor if necessary. He enjoys her sense of humor, too. When he told her to stick with him, the Master <em>genuinely</em> would’ve taken her along. Who knows for how long, and it was mostly to annoy the Doctor, but he’s had ‘companions’ before, sees the appeal. Partly. Sometimes. He’s really more of a cat person.</p>
<p>(And <em>that</em> is an incident he prefers to not talk about.)</p>
<p>Point is, when Yaz immediately heads over to start examining the Dalek clone tower, the Master is starting to very much dislike her. “What’s your job, Yaz?”</p>
<p>“We need to know what’s going on,” Yaz insists, and there’s no rebellious malice, it’s earnest curiosity, the plucky investigative reporter part of her (<em>why</em> is she trying to join the police?).</p>
<p>“No, we need to tell the Doctor,” he says with as much patience as he can manage. It doesn’t stop Yaz from shrugging and heading for the tubes feeding the tanks.</p>
<p>Jack says, “No, we need to blow it up, <em>now</em>.”</p>
<p>Despite the fact that <em>is</em> what they should actually be doing, he’s wrong, so the Master gives him an unimpressed look. “What did the Doctor <em>explicitly</em> ask for?”</p>
<p>“She was talking about one Dalek, not a tower of squirming Dalek clones! This changes things,” Jack insists.</p>
<p>He’s right, again. But as the Master sees it, this changes things from the Doctor killing <em>one</em> Dalek to the Doctor killing <em>several</em> Daleks, and that is an opportunity the Master is not going to pass up.</p>
<p>“And if I let you blow it up, it becomes <em>how could you, I’m so upset, you promised to behave,”</em> the Master says, pitching his voice obnoxiously high but mimicking the Doctor’s current accent perfectly. “And then I’m trapped in some little room hidden away in her TARDIS for the next three decades until I repent like some <em>fibbing-</em>”</p>
<p>Yaz shrieks, and Jack takes off running for her while the Master looks on. But right, he’s behaving, so the Master starts heading over to where Jack is shouting, “<em>Yaz, don’t move!”</em> He shoots his squareness gun at her back, where there’s a <em>Dalek?</em> What? That’s-</p>
<p>Ohhh, right. He hasn’t seen a reconnaissance Dalek in <em>years.</em> Even during the War, they were rare.</p>
<p>Which presents an opportunity.</p>
<p>A truly <em>beautiful</em> opportunity.</p>
<p>Well, he can always ask forgiveness instead of permission.</p>
<p>Yaz is shaken, but made of stern stuff, and ruins the Master’s budding plan by pointing at another Dalek. Jack shoots it, and bam, gone.</p>
<p>“Are you okay?” Jack asks.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Yaz says.</p>
<p>Thankfully, he gets another plan <em>very</em> quickly.</p>
<p>The Master puts a subtly worried look on his face, and asks, “Did it get in your head?” Yaz shakes her head. The Master adds a small apology to his expression and holds out a hand. “Do you mind if I check? Just a quick skim, not even surface thoughts.”</p>
<p>Yaz looks <em>very</em> surprised, and it’s more than justified when she looks down at his hand suspiciously.</p>
<p>“The Doctor sent me because I know not to underestimate a Dalek,” he says. “Because I <em>know</em> to always, always check.”</p>
<p>It’s actually impressive, the bravery Yaz musters up when she nods and puts her hand in his. It’s such an admirable flaw, courage. Foolhardiness for the sake of others.</p>
<p>“In and out, promise,” he says, and shuts his eyes.</p>
<p>The Master doesn’t actually go into her mind, because of <em>course </em>the Dalek didn’t get into her head, it barely got on her back. The point is this: Yaz, trusting him. He sends one small glancing shred of <em>pressure,</em> a curious warmth, and pulls back. “No Dalek.”</p>
<p>“That’s it?” Yaz asks.</p>
<p>“If you <em>want</em> an alien to tear open your brain, feel free to ask,” the Master says. And pauses. “Unless that’s a kink. No shaming, just not int-”</p>
<p>Yaz smacks him on the shoulder, blushing furiously as she says, “It’s not a <em>kink!”</em></p>
<p>
  <em>And he wins.</em>
</p>
<p>Yasmin Khan sees him as something other than a threat. Or a threat willing to stomp her head into the floor on a whim for touching him, at least. If he <em>is</em> stuck in the TARDIS with his Doctor and the fam, Yaz would be the person whispering in the Doctor’s ear, over and over, what the Master really is. What he’s done. What he will <em>always</em> be. What he’ll never stop trying to drag the Doctor into being, too.</p>
<p>Yaz treats him like a human, and the Master wins, for however long the Doctor keeps her around. Because the voice of reason thinks he’s reasonable, at least some of the time.</p>
<p>“It really is a kink, though,” Jack comments. “One of the few things I haven’t tried.”</p>
<p>Temporal monstrosity or not, the Master is physically incapable of not winking at him and saying, “Ask nicely.”</p>
<p>Jack lets out a single startled bark of laughter. It echoes through the massive building, a sharp explosion of very <em>human </em>noise in a room full of Daleks who are, at the very least, awake enough to try and jump Yaz.</p>
<p>Speaking of.</p>
<p>“You should go make that call, now,” the Master says, looking up the tower, at the subtle change in all that squirming. The sudden churning of tubes, the exhalation of gas from a few valves, <em>that</em> is clear enough to make the change in situation very, very clear.</p>
<p>Yaz actually obeys.</p>
<p>Which is <em>one</em> person out of his way, and probably five minutes or so before the Doctor shows up.</p>
<p>The Master starts counting in his head.</p>
<p>There’s the sound of heavy footsteps on a grated floor, close to the base of the tower. Probably their primary Dalek. The Master ducks down to crouch behind some metal barrels, goes still, and <em>listens.</em> Counts, and listens.</p>
<p>“Should’ve known flirting with you would get me in trouble,” Jack says, because he’s still human and it’s a tense situation and he doesn’t know the Master is actually doing something. It probably looks like he’s staring into space. Maybe like he’s going back into one of those lovely exhaustion episodes of his.</p>
<p>But he’s an opportunist, and he can’t exactly <em>kill</em> Jack to incapacitate him. Can’t do anything ‘bad’ since he promised to <em>behave.</em> So he turns to Jack and goes with the most pleasant distraction around. He says, “I really am willing to do it, if you’re interested. If you’re <em>actually </em>interested, not just messing with Yaz.”</p>
<p>He can see the growing curiosity in Jack’s eyes, because for someone as old as him, novelty is precious. “You might be the most confusing person I’ve ever met.”</p>
<p>The Master shrugs. “Think it over,” he says, and since Jack doesn’t try to deliver some sort of quip back, the Master considers him appropriately distracted. It’s more forcing divided attention than a full distraction, but divided attention is all he really needs. Next step: the Master takes off the coat, and then, after a moment of consideration, starts taking the waistcoat off too. “Now, remember what I said? Follow my lead, don’t be stupid?”</p>
<p>“This is a weird time to start stripping,” Jack says.</p>
<p>Rolling his eyes, the Master drops the waistcoat onto the coat-coat, tries to make his hair look a bit neater. Tries to look more boring. More human.</p>
<p>Tick, tick, tick, he’s losing time. He shuts his eyes and, again, <em>listens.</em></p>
<p>The Master stands, and puts his hands up as he walks towards the Dalek-ridden human. With big scared puppy eyes, the Master says, “Please! Please, Mr. Dalek, take me instead.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Pretty Little Truth Trap</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>----</p>
<p>The Master put a lot of time into research after slaughtering Gallifrey. He also put a lot of time into being insane, unhinged to a level that <em>someone</em> should’ve applauded. It was impressive.</p>
<p>The Master hadn’t even registered the amount of red on him for a good number of days. The entirety of The Library evacuated because of him, coated in the dust and blood of Gallifrey. That was fun. Probably. It’s a complete blur, but it’s fun to think about.</p>
<p>Not much solid information exists on alternate dimensions and realities, and <em>none</em> exists to do with the Timeless Child. Anything about it. Anything and everything. Of course. <em>Of course,</em> because what else would Time Lords do but hide the information, hoard it and burn it and keep a brutal hold on what was <em>theirs. </em>A child tortured over and over again, for eternity, for their own fun and profit. The closest thing he could find was information on mysterious light entities from an alternate plane of existence, and even that was so vague and useless that the Master was still wandering around in the dark. </p>
<p>So, really, all it meant was the Master blew up a lot of libraries and universities for a year or two. It was almost unintentional. He was just...so mad. So so so mad.</p>
<p>Being <em>extremely</em> pathetic at the time, after he gave up on pointless research, the Master went to Bristol a few years before Missy’s last trip. At first he did a good bit of pining, and crying, and screaming, and the Doctor was only slightly interested in the rumors of a poltergeist in a nearby building. Not interested enough to investigate.</p>
<p>He had some very serious thoughts of interfering with his own timeline to make sure Missy stayed around. Missy had her mind to herself. Missy was trying. Missy had her Doctor. Missy didn’t know what they are yet. Missy could be <em>happy.</em> But if Missy was alive and ignorant, so were the Time Lords, and that was something he could <em>never</em> let happen.</p>
<p>He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t <em>want</em> to do anything. He considered asking to be put back in the vault. Maybe he could find a way to - maybe, <em>maybe,</em> if he went and locked himself back in, maybe things could go back. Maybe he could rip out the knowledge, with so much empty time, time to figure out some self-inflicted brain surgery. And the Doctor would come back and tell him everything’s okay and the Master(?) wouldn’t <em>care,</em> wouldn’t know.</p>
<p>Much of his time was spent walking, in the off hope of stumbling across Missy’s Doctor. Or maybe in the desperate hope to avoid stumbling across Missy’s Doctor. He wandered like a feral dog wanders, no particular destination but wild, aching, and always ready to snap.</p>
<p>And then one day he overheard someone talking very professionally about vore.</p>
<p>It’s funny, he probably would’ve given up and done something extreme if it weren’t for one man’s ill-advised company name. Because the Master had no real plans at the time. So his grand plan’s goal at the very start was just, <em>wouldn’t it be <strong>hilarious</strong> if everyone in the world was constantly talking about vore?</em></p>
<p>Which expanded to include, <em><strong>and</strong> the vore thing killed all humans? And better yet, what if the vore thing could also be an opportunity to learn about creatures from alternate dimensions? </em>He hadn’t let up on that research, he’d just realized there was literally nothing to find. So he did the work himself. And he found the Kasaavin, who were intriguing and useful for everything except what the Master actually cared about.</p>
<p>And, just like every scheme the Master loves, the final piece slotted inside: <em>what if the Doctor was there too?</em></p>
<p>The Vore Plan - well, VOR Plan, technically - had everything. Absolutely everything. He carved out a position for himself in it all, created the <em>perfect</em> companion for spying on the Doctor - and he’d be an actual spy, too! Spies everywhere! Why the fuck not, what did he have to lose, <em>yes</em> he was going to be a spy! A <em>bad</em> spy. (Meaning the <em>best spy possible.)</em></p>
<p>He practically dissolved UNIT while he was at it. Easy peasy, talk about budget concerns in the right ears, move money around, plant some discord, break alliances, and voila, the Doctor was on her own.</p>
<p>His plan was beautiful. So beautiful.</p>
<p>The Master even made birthday party demands from Barton to ensure they’d have to dress up in tuxedos, like James Bond. He timed the whole damn thing around it, <em>ready set go</em> to the Kasaavin when Barton’s birthday would be so convenient, with their convenient invitations. If the party went long enough, there was going to be a <em>tango competition.</em></p>
<p>He didn’t get his tango competition, but the exploding plane worked fine too. A different sort of satisfaction, but satisfaction nonetheless. Get rid of the humans, make the Doctor wonder a bit about how many regenerations she has, et cetera.</p>
<p>But the point is - sometimes, he does things just because they’re funny. Often, really. And sometimes the funny thing gets bigger. Turns into something magnificent.</p>
<p>And when the Master realized these are parasitic Daleks who can invade people’s minds, he had one immediate thought: <em>Wouldn’t it be funny if they tried to control <strong>me?</strong></em></p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“More food for my progeny,” the Dalek-human voice warbles, which is <em>interesting.</em> The Dalek is using the human vocal cords. Does control go the other way around too?</p>
<p>“No, I - I’m valuable, <em>much</em> more valuable,” the Master says, frantic and human and <em>earnest,</em> so heartfelt. “That one’s got a family, a life. But I don’t, Mr. Dalek. I’m just a traveler, and that’s what you need.” No, too competent. So he swallows, puts a bit more of an anxious squeak in his voice. “I-isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“My plans are complete and underway, I have no need for a new puppet,” <em>Mr. Dalek</em> (he’s so funny) says.</p>
<p>“Then you don’t need <em>him</em> anymore either, do you?” he says, and walks closer, makes himself look close to tears. “Let him go. Please. I...I know things. That he doesn’t.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Tick, tick, tick.</em>
</p>
<p>Mr. Dalek is hard to read, to put it mildly, but silence shows temptation. And he’s running out of free time, so the Master takes a deep breath, and <em>really</em> hopes Jack won’t be stupid. He bites his lip and says, “I travel with the Doctor.”</p>
<p>And <em>tadaaa,</em> there’s Mr. Dalek’s interest, piloting his human to walk towards the Master. “The Doctor is an enemy of the Daleks.”</p>
<p>The Master laughs, high and nervous, “O-of course she’s not, Mr. Dalek, the Doctor is <em>very</em> compassionate, I’m sure she’s willing to-”</p>
<p><em>“Do not resist me,”</em> Mr. Dalek says, and leaps from his current body (which immediately drops to the floor, dying) to the Master.</p>
<p>Screaming isn’t hard to do, because there’s more than a small part of the Master that is ready to vomit from having a Dalek <em>touch him.</em> It’s wrong, it’s <em>wrong</em> and horrifying. Dropping the shielding around his mind is even worse, feeling the Dalek wriggle its way around his torso and into his mind-</p>
<p>
  <em>There.</em>
</p>
<p>“Hello, Mr. Dalek,” the Master croons at it, and slams his shields back up, trapping the Dalek’s mind inside his own. It’s too busy being confused (Daleks are <em>not</em> natural telepaths, it’s a recon thing) for the Master to have any trouble keeping it contained and separated. For now.</p>
<p>Any psychic link is a two-way link. Period. Shielding and strategy can make it seem otherwise, but a reconnaissance Dalek isn’t exactly up to par with a 2000 year old Time Lord who has always been unnaturally talented with this sort of thing. And the Dalek opened its mind up for <em>absolute control</em> of the Master’s body, and everything is a two-way link. Everything. The link is so hilariously massive and all-encompassing that with just a shred of effort, the Master gets what information he needs. He trots over to the tower controls, and shuts everything off. Squirmy mutants are stuck in their pods. The end.</p>
<p>Inside his mind, the Dalek <em>finally</em> understands what is happening, and starts to scream.</p>
<p>The Master makes sure the Dalek’s body, still wrapped around his own torso, stays perfectly still and silent.</p>
<p>“Alright, freak, crisis averted, Mr. Dalek here is trapped in my mind,” the Master calls, and Jack rises from behind the barrels, squareness gun in hand, watching him intently.</p>
<p>“Should I shoot it?” Jack asks, eyes flicking between the Master and the tentacles still curling around him.</p>
<p>The Master scoffs. “Really, Jack, don’t spoil our fun. She said <em>alive,</em> remember?”</p>
<p>“With an implication of ‘actually able to talk,’ I’m pretty sure,” he says, because Jack still believes in the Doctor’s goodness. Probably always will. When the Master is clearly unswayed, Jack tries another tactic. “Didn’t you promise to behave?”</p>
<p>“I did, and I am. Really, I <em>am</em> behaving,” the Master insists. And grins. “Everyone <em>else,</em> on the other hand…”</p>
<p>And Jack actually <em>gets it.</em> His eyes go wide. “The Matrix.”</p>
<p>“Exactly. A collection of dead Time Lords, many dead <em>because</em> of Daleks and <em>quite</em> angry about it.” The Master gives Jack a brilliant, dazzling smile, and finds a convenient crate to sit on. “<em>But,</em> I am behaving, and this is the Doctor’s hunt,” he says. “So I’m going to go in and supervise, make sure nobody kills it. Be sure to let the Doctor know she can come in and join, or stop us, whenever she wants.”</p>
<p>“You’re making her choose how long it’s tortured,” Jack says.</p>
<p>
  <em>Tick, tick, tick.</em>
</p>
<p>He could say a lot of things to that. He really could.</p>
<p>The Master says, “Yep.”</p>
<p>When he shuts his eyes, the timing is perfect. The Master focuses inward and unleashes the Matrix on Mr. Dalek as the TARDIS starts to phase into existence, just a few feet away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Master intends to join in on the Dalek torture, he really does. But he’s a curious kitten, and he’s never been psychically linked to a <em>Dalek</em> before so of course he’s going to play with that. Besides, the entirety of the Matrix has the torture <em>well</em> in hand, to the point the Master can’t fully block out the psychic screams. Audibly block, yes, the humans can’t hear anything. But the Doctor will know <em>exactly</em> what’s happening when she steps out of the TARDIS.</p>
<p>He’s had the Cyberium in his mind, before. It was like a cold analytical soup that drenched the wrinkles of his brains, tried to suck away the feelings and just ended up recoiling in distaste instead. The Master and the Cyberium were a bad match, to put it lightly. He has too many feelings.</p>
<p>The Master and the <em>Dalek,</em> well, this is different. He leaves the consciousness to its agony, and pokes his way into the creature’s body, since the entire link is focused on motor control. And <em>wow,</em> tentacles - not sure if he’s into that. He twitches one and nope, <em>nope,</em> hands and thumbs win by a lot. Everything is cold and it hurts to even <em>feel</em> air, so physically sensitive it’s amazing the Dalek could focus on anything but the air circulation.</p>
<p>Vision is...disorienting at first, catching more heat and movement than image. Auditory processing is different, an echoing sort of thing that somehow lets him hear more - <em>movement,</em> that’s what it is. Daleks are clearly made to watch for threats. Or victims. The senses of a creature genetically engineered into paranoia and the senses that would encourage it.</p>
<p>He sticks around in the Dalek, makes sure he has a panic button return switch to his own body if needed. In the hilariously unlikely situation of the Doctor screeching in horror at the entire idea of a Dalek being tortured by its own victims and physically tearing it off him.</p>
<p>And there she is. It’s almost embarrassing how flattered he feels when the Doctor looks up at the tower for about five milliseconds and then registers the Dalek on his back, and <em>runs,</em> shouting, <em>“Master!”</em></p>
<p>“He’s fine, he convinced the Dalek to do it,” Jack says, but it doesn’t - oh, maybe it’s time to switch back, because the Doctor is visibly upset. He’d like to see that. It’s curious how Dalek-vision makes every single twitch of her lower lip, the corners of her eyes, the small wrinkles on her forehead, ignite in movement and color. A bit beautiful. When Jack hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the fam following her in, the Master can see how her hesitation is not the absence of movement, but the increase of muscle tension. “He’s…”</p>
<p>“The Matrix,” the Doctor breathes out.</p>
<p>Because it’s very funny, the Master decides to use the Dalek to say, <em>“And also controlling the Dalek!” </em>The humans shriek. He ignores them. <em>“Not sure it qualifies as <strong>fun</strong>, but certainly novel, if you want to try it out.”</em></p>
<p>“That’s the Master?” Yaz asks.</p>
<p>He waves one of the Dalek’s tentacles towards her. <em>“See, Yaz? I was <strong>very</strong> polite to your brain.”</em></p>
<p>“What? Why were you in her head?” the Doctor asks.</p>
<p><em>“She wandered off, got jumped,”</em> he has the Dalek say. And it probably sounds very disturbing, but the Master-Dalek laughs, delighted. <em>“Come play, Doctor.”</em></p>
<p>“I should make you stop,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p><em>“No, you shouldn’t. Go ahead, ask the humans if I behaved,”</em> the Master-Dalek says. <em>“Even when they were deliberately irritating. I was ‘good’ the whole time.”</em></p>
<p>It’s very fun to have the Dalek tentacles make little air quotes.</p>
<p>After a long moment of conflict, the Doctor sighs, and shakes her head. There’s shame on her face, and no. No. That’s not allowed, not for <em>this.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is <em>justice</em> too much to ask, Doctor?” the Master asks, using his own voice, opening his own eyes. “Letting victims of violence find some sort of satisfaction?”</p>
<p>“That’s not what this is,” the Doctor says. “This is - it’s not the same.”</p>
<p>He wants to push her to <em>say it,</em> admit to all her little pets that she knows there’s a Dalek being psychically ripped apart by a thousand furious ghosts. The Master lets out a frustrated noise and stands up, glares, gets close enough that she has no choice but to face the fact. The pain. The history, the <em>fury,</em> the call to slaughter. “It’s a <em>Dalek.”</em></p>
<p>“It’s one more monster living in your head,” the Doctor says. “You could barely handle <em>yourself.”</em></p>
<p>She says it with a disgusting farce of empathy. Like she believes it. Like that’s all that’s happening here, that it’s <em>him</em> the Doctor is worried about instead of her own fucking pride, her own obsession with morality and a hero complex that swings to martyr complex and back, depending on which is less convenient at any given time, a swinging pendulum of guilty self-destruction. She has to find something to save in this situation, and the Doctor <em>cannot</em> say it’s the Dalek. She can’t. And so, it transfers to him.</p>
<p>Aaand <em>pop</em> goes the lid on that little rage container. <em>Crack,</em> go his hearts. Broken, again. Always.</p>
<p>“What a surprise. What a <em>shock,</em> one more promise <em>I keep</em> and you ignore,” he snarls, and shoves her back, <em>away,</em> watches her stumble into a railing. “Don’t lie to me, don’t <em>pretend</em> you care how damaged <em>my mind is </em>when you-”</p>
<p>“Get the Dalek out of your head,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p>“You think I’m not in control? You think I’d <em>lose</em> to a <em>Dalek?</em>” the Master asks, and <em>laughs,</em> and it’s getting hard to breathe. “I thought with this, at least in <em>this,</em> we’d agree. The single thing I believed we <em>both feel</em> and still, you betray me. You pick a Dalek? You pick <em>them?</em>”</p>
<p>“He’s out of his mind,” one of the humans says. He doesn’t give a fuck which one, they’re all the same. “How do we get the Dalek off him?!”</p>
<p>The Master reaches into the Dalek’s motor control, into its brain, and shatters it. The mental torture and the screams stop, and it’s dead, not even a whisper of the Dalek left in the Master’s mind, although the Matrix’s bloodlust remains. Its tentacles go limp, and the Dalek drops to the floor with an unceremonious thud.</p>
<p>“Oops,” he says, and gives the Doctor a bitter smile. “Looks like you just lost your excuse to ignore my valid criticism. Now, let’s see your morality with <em>this</em> lot, Doctor!” He waves towards the tower of Daleks. “Going to save them, too?”</p>
<p>He can see the moment the Doctor realizes she’s trapped. The Master wishes he could enjoy it, making her <em>suffer,</em> making her pets see what’s really inside. Making them see she’s the same as him and there’s no moral high ground, just different hills they’re willing to die on.</p>
<p>“Sweet, merciful Doctor. So very <em>good.</em> Look at all these Daleks. <em>Baby</em> Daleks, even! Oh my, what <em>will </em>the Oncoming Storm do?” he says, mocking, bitter. The Doctor tries to back away as he steps towards her, and her humans - the fam, at least; he neither knows nor cares where Jack went - are rushing over. Yaz and Ryan grab him, and the Master laughs and laughs and <em>laughs.</em></p>
<p>Because of course. Of course. She never has to tell her dogs to bite, she trains them into <em>loving</em> her, over and over again. Or loving what they see. What she shows them. The pretty little lie.</p>
<p>And it wakes up <em>some</em> of the Doctor, at least, because she goes still. That’s the <em>real</em> rage, there. The type that’s <em>Just. Like. Him.</em> The Master explodes into fire but the Doctor sharpens into ice and it’s beautiful and he hates her hates her <em>hates her.</em></p>
<p>“It’s them, or the Earth,” she says.</p>
<p>“Liar. You could relocate them. Put them in stasis. Maybe, hm...lock them away? You could even try to teach the evil monster to be good,” the Master says, and the laughter drains into a cold, empty stare. “Or you do what is <em>meant to happen,</em> and kill them.”</p>
<p>She knows what he’s actually saying, of course. It’s not exactly <em>subtle,</em> and it’s not where he intended this conversation to go, but here they are.</p>
<p>There’s no reply, because instead, there’s Captain Jack Harkness shouting, “Fire in the hole, everybody, we’ve got 30 seconds!”</p>
<p><em>“What?!”</em> the Doctor shouts.</p>
<p>Jack is already pulling at Graham, and Ryan, shoving them in the direction of the TARDIS. “Let’s <em>go,</em> people! Into the TARDIS!”</p>
<p>“This was <em>not</em> your decision to make, Jack.” The Doctor looks ready to strangle him.</p>
<p>“But it’s made,” Jack says, and grabs the Master by the shoulder, pulling with <em>more</em> than enough physical force that the choice is either go with Jack or flail around to grab something and resist. So he goes, although he knows how to count to 30 in his head so he’s not sprinting the 30 feet between himself and the TARDIS.</p>
<p>The Master does slap Jack’s hand off of him when they get next to his coat, though. He considers shrugging it on dramatically, but Jack sees the hesitation and voila, back to the dragging. Yaz is waiting for them to enter, and the Doctor will be last in, so the Master follows Jack through the doors and into the TARDIS.</p>
<p>“You saved her,” the Master accuses.</p>
<p>“I saved <em>both</em> of you,” Jack says, and tows the Master all the way across the console room to that same <em>fucking</em> armchair. Next to it remains Missy’s teapot, still warm, still set for unknown taste buds. “Not to mention Earth.”</p>
<p>“Enjoy getting yelled at,” the Master says cheerily, and looks down at the tea set, trying to decide if he’d rather drink tea or break everything.</p>
<p>But Jack asks, “Are you okay?”</p>
<p>“Remember I’m the bad guy, freak?” the Master says. And when he glances up, the Doctor has her head pressed against the TARDIS’s closed doors, Yaz hovering, Graham and Ryan not too far behind. He pours himself a cup of tea. “And <em>you </em>have bigger things to worry about.”</p>
<p><em>“Captain,”</em> the Doctor says with a harsh level of authority the fam has probably never heard, and that’s even more Oncoming Storm than what the Master managed to get out of her. She takes approximately .04 seconds to throw the TARDIS into the time vortex, no destination other than <em>not here.</em> “We need to talk.”</p>
<p>Jack is smart enough to just nod, and follow the Doctor deeper into the TARDIS without a word. It leaves the Master alone with her pets.</p>
<p>Oddly enough, it’s Graham who steps forward. He expected Yaz. And he also didn’t expect the question to be, “You alright, son?”</p>
<p>At least this time he <em>chokes</em> on his tea instead of spitting it across the room.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>The Master’s not very good at caring about people. Mostly because he doesn’t see the point, has limited self-control if there’s no clear reason to control himself, and also genuinely enjoys killing things. It takes too long to actually care about someone. His hearts latched onto the Doctor when they were eight years old and said, <em>there. Done forever. No more space.</em></p>
<p>He cared about his children. That seemed inevitable, considering the weird protectiveness that punched him in the face when each of them was born. Besides, it was only eight years. He could pretend to be a good parent for eight years.</p>
<p>And he did.</p>
<p>It’s why they had four children, exactly eight years apart - his wife wasn’t particularly fond of the real him, and the Master doesn’t blame her. When she asked if he’d prefer a fifth child or a separation, separation won by a <em>lot.</em></p>
<p>Whenever his children came around, the Master could put the Good Father mask back on. And he <em>did</em> care about them. He paid attention when they told him things, tried to help them with things they wanted help with, even remembered things they like and dislike because he wanted to.</p>
<p>His third-born, his daughter, was the one the Master became closest to, solely because she had the same sort of issues he did. His daughter knew there was something wrong with her when she killed her pet. She <em>knew,</em> because she was smart and well-read, but didn’t feel it. What she felt was the dread of knowing she was different.</p>
<p>“How do I fix it?” his daughter had asked.</p>
<p>The Master’s reply had been to drop his Good Father mask for the first time around any of his children. It was the Master, not her Father, who kissed her on the forehead and said, “You can’t fix it, but you can control it and pretend it was never there to begin with.”</p>
<p>And he spent the remaining year before she went to the Academy practically glued to her side, watching over what they worked hard to pass off as a temper, trying to help her become more like...well, literally anyone but him. Or look like she was, at least.</p>
<p>The other children turned out just fine. His daughter, not so much, but the Master undeniably loved her the most. The Good Father never played favorites, but the Master certainly did. Still does.</p>
<p>She died in the Time War, too brutally quick to make it into the Matrix.</p>
<p>It’s how all of his children went.</p>
<p>But before they died, they had children in turn. The Master cared about his <em>grand</em>children solely because his children cared about them. He never met the great-grands. He was too busy chasing the Doctor and pretending it wasn’t exactly what he was doing, and then it was the War, and then everyone was dead.</p>
<p>So when things reach the point where Captain Jack Harkness smiles at the Master, and the Master feels like smiling back, of course he doesn’t know what’s happening. He hasn’t made a friend in 2300 years, and he’s <em>never </em>had a friend-friend before. The standard kind. The kind where being around the other person isn’t work, isn’t required, it’s done by choice because being around each other is just plain old <em>fun.</em></p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Doctor yells at Jack for about four hours. Or they’re gone for four hours, at least. The Master considers going in and investigating, but it’s also fun to play with the Doctor’s pets sometimes.</p>
<p>“It’s a <em>bit</em> scandalous, what with us coming from the same batch of - well, it’ll translate to you as <em>time slime,</em> which I know sounds absurd in English,” the Master says. “But it was different harvests, obviously, so it’s not too bad. More raised eyebrows than outright disapproval.”</p>
<p>“Time Lords have slime babies?” Ryan asks with an appropriate level of incredulity.</p>
<p>The Master frowns. “You don’t see me sitting here criticizing <em>your</em> species for the parasitic gestation thing,” he says. “And it’s not slime babies, the translation is - look, it’s actually this word.” The Master says <em>gullible</em> in Gallifreyan. “But you hear 'time slime.' Because English is a terrible language with no equivalent, no matter how good the TARDIS is at translating.”</p>
<p>Graham, watching intently, says, “Say the word again?” The Master obliges. And to his <em>delight,</em> the fam immediately starts trying to say the word themselves.</p>
<p>And that’s what the still-fuming Doctor walks into. Three humans performing the equivalent of a toddler doing its best at shouting <em>gullible</em>, because the volume has been steadily increasing.</p>
<p>Even with their clumsy attempts, it’s still clearly Gallifreyan, albeit shitty Gallifreyan. Which means the Doctor turns towards <em>him,</em> and says, “What did you do.”</p>
<p>“I told them we knew each other as children, and they wanted to know about that, so then I ended up telling them about Time Lord babies. You know, the time slime harvests,” the Master says, face completely straight. “That’s what they’re trying to say. The Gallifreyan word for time slime.”</p>
<p>The Doctor’s lips twitch.</p>
<p>“Oh god, what word are we actually saying?” Ryan says before the Doctor has to choose if she’ll play along or not. Saved again. “There’s no time slime, is there - I <em>knew</em> there’s no time slime!”</p>
<p>“The truth is even stranger,” the Master sing-songs at them, and goes back to his tea.</p>
<p>The Doctor may or may not intend the words to be translatable when she rushes to say, “No. No. I am <em>not</em> explaining looms to 21st century humans. Not today.”</p>
<p>“Do <em>I </em>get to know?” Jack asks the Master, face hilariously innocent. The Master sweetly smiles back, just as innocent, even bats his eyelashes. At least <em>someone</em> is willing to play. “After all, the 51st century is more enlightened, <em>very</em> open-minded-”</p>
<p>“Stop it,” the Doctor snaps at Jack, which is curious. She almost looks offended. “Really? <em>Really?</em> I’m <em>right here,</em> Jack.”</p>
<p>And instead of apologizing, Jack raises his eyebrows meaningfully at the Master. A loud unspoken <em>that meant something, listen, think.</em></p>
<p>So what could Jack be pointing out, think think think, the Doctor was offended after -</p>
<p>The Master drops his teacup.</p>
<p>Jack <em>grins.</em> He grins the grin of a successful wingman.</p>
<p>The Master drops his teacup, because one of his hands goes over his own already-shut mouth, and the other clenches the arm of the armchair. And then he stands up. And...sits down. Because he shouldn’t have stood up. <em>Or should he,</em> the Master stands back up so he can stare at the Doctor, who is looking <em>anywhere</em> else.</p>
<p>
  <em>What the fuck happened in the past four hours?</em>
</p>
<p>“Boy, I sure do find <em>any</em> flirting distasteful on <em>my</em> TARDIS,” the Doctor says very loudly. “You’d better not do that when I’m around, Jack, I sure don’t like it! Because it’s flirting that I object to. In general. Obviously. Clearly! <em>Any</em> time. No matter who is around, I would <em>absolutely</em> have said the same thing, no ifs ands or buts, just a - a solid moratorium-”</p>
<p>“You’re overselling it,” Yaz says.</p>
<p>“And you’re allowed to ask me to not flirt with your...whatever he is,” Jack reassures her. Because of course he does. Saving the Doctor left and right. </p>
<p>“Actually, no. She’s <em>not </em>allowed,” the Master says, and then raises his eyebrows, expectant. “Unless you want to say something?”</p>
<p>All the Doctor has to say is, <em>actually yes, we’re together.</em> Doesn’t have to say married, even. Couple, pairing, an <em>item,</em> it doesn’t matter so long as she acknowledges there’s <em>something</em> between them, in front of another person. There’s no ceremony. She doesn’t even have to say his name, doesn’t even have to <em>ask him</em>, because the Master was a lovestruck idiot child and it’s an insta-claim relationship because of it.</p>
<p>She doesn’t say a damn thing.</p>
<p>“Thought so,” the Master says, not even a little bit surprised.</p>
<p>“We need to talk,” she says, and then clearly reconsiders her approach, verbally backpedaling with the grace of a dolphin on carpet. “I mean, I’d like to talk about what’s happened. Happening. With you. If you’re willing.”</p>
<p>He scoffs. “If you think I’m going to let you in my head after what you-”</p>
<p>“That’s fine! And fair, very fair, honestly I don’t blame you. Talk out loud, then?” She gives him a tiny hopeful smile that <em>kills him again and again,</em> eyes bright, hands clasping together in front of her. “If I can shout at Jack for four hours with nobody hearing, we can probably talk in private too.”</p>
<p>The Master knows exactly what this talk is going to be. And he’s <em>not interested,</em> to say the least. But the Doctor’s smile is starting to waver and he’s a fool, he’s an idiot, he’s <em>pathetic,</em> he really likes her smile (and she was jealous she was <em>jealous)</em> so he says, “Fine.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Until Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Doctor decided to set up a whole new room in the TARDIS for this, which he wishes he found flattering. It mostly makes him feel resigned to his fate, this room that’s not <em>quite</em> the shared space of Koschei and Theta’s old quarters in the Citadel. There’s too much Earth in the design, everything just a couple degrees off, like she thought she was being clever and hoping to get the emotional reaction and not the actual awareness of what she thought up for this.</p>
<p>“Stop trying to set up a good healthy intervention, Doctor,” he says, but can’t find it in himself to be angry about it.</p>
<p>“I just...I did this wrong last time,” the Doctor says, and she’s getting fruit out of cupboards, putting it on the table. “I really did mean to help, Master, but I did it the wrong way. Every way I could’ve done it wrong.”</p>
<p>“You mean potentially ripping apart one of my most fragile memories out of curiosity <em>wasn’t</em> a good way to express concern?” the Master asks, and puts a shocked hand to the center of his chest. “I never would’ve thought!”</p>
<p>Instead of arguing, she motions for the Master to sit down at the kitchen table, and takes her own chair. “I’ve never tried to diagnose you and never will, and you’d end up lying even if you were <em>trying</em> to get a diagnosis, so we’re skipping that,” she says. “And the Matrix can be extracted, I think. We’re geniuses, so we can figure something out.” The Doctor takes a deep breath. “But wanting to die, that’s new, for you.”</p>
<p>The Master makes an agreeing noise, and sits in the other chair. If she wants an <em>open</em> and <em>honest</em> discussion, he’ll give it to her. “I think we both have to die, at the same time. Entanglement and all that,” he says, and pops a grape in his mouth. It helps keep his smile obnoxious. “So at least you know I’m not going to off myself. I need <em>you</em> to do it.”</p>
<p>“And you think I want to kill you?” the Doctor asks.</p>
<p>“You started to feel conflicted about killing <em>Daleks</em>,” the Master says, somehow both fond and scathing, and shakes his head. “No, no. Of course you don’t want to do it. You're too <em>nice</em> this time around. Or you act that way, at least.”</p>
<p>“Then do you think I want you dead?” she asks.</p>
<p>“This is already getting tiresome, Doctor.” The Master plucks another grape, focusing more on the grape than the Doctor’s expression. “But no, I don’t think that.” It doesn’t much bother the Doctor when he’s dead, but she doesn’t actively <em>want</em> it. “I’m just tired, and done. And contrary to popular belief, not everything is about you.”</p>
<p>“Never said it was,” the Doctor says. She’s gotten quiet. “Look. I’d like to get the Matrix out of your head. After that, you might…” She takes a deep breath. “I’m <em>hoping</em> you might feel different.”</p>
<p>There’s a superstition Time Lords have. Or maybe not a superstition, since it does seem to be true that when you regenerate, two things transfer over. One can be deliberate - usually this is something like sex, size, some other physical characteristic, sometimes a personality trait. The other is about how you died. What you were thinking.</p>
<p>And Missy had been thinking how wonderful it would be, to die with the Doctor. Feeling like everything would be right in the world, that way.</p>
<p>The Doctor asks, “Will you promise to-”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>The Doctor barely restrains glaring at him. “Stop being contrary, all I’m asking is-”</p>
<p>“Oh no. <em>No.</em> No more promises, Doctor. Not with you, you’ve already taken plenty of them.”</p>
<p>He refuses to let her even ask, because he knows what she’ll ask for. Worse, he knows she’ll phrase it in a way that sounds so <em>very</em> reasonable, like it’s not anything big, like it’s temporary. Like it’s for <em>his</em> sake instead of yet another of the Doctor’s grasping attempts to get away from him and destroy anything he wants and ruin his life.</p>
<p>Harsh resolve takes over the Doctor’s face, but there’s still that desperate <em>pity</em> in her eyes. She stands. “Guess we’re done here, then,” she says, and opens the door.</p>
<p>“You’re not going to let me leave, are you,” the Master says, and he can hear how hollow his voice sounds.</p>
<p>She looks at him for a moment, and says, “No. But I’m not going to imprison you, either.” Then she heads out the door, fully expecting the Master to follow. And he does, follows her right back into the TARDIS console room, where everyone else is waiting.</p>
<p>It may be the worst mistake of his life. Which is <em>saying something.</em></p>
<p>The Master has made it three steps into the room when the Doctor says, “Everyone, this is my husband.”</p>
<p>No. No no no no no, <em>no NO-</em></p>
<p>“We are married, and I <em>am</em> claiming that bond,” the Doctor tells the other four living witnesses, which is <em>more</em> than enough. Even one would work.</p>
<p>And he knows exactly what’s coming.</p>
<p>How many times can someone’s hearts break? How many times will it take for him to stop being so <em>shocked</em> by the cruelty, the betrayal, the <em>heartlessness</em> of the Doctor?</p>
<p>He can’t deny it. Can’t deny <em>her.</em> And what’s coming, it’s the part the Doctor has never, not once, not <em>ever</em> taken advantage of, even when Koschei and Theta got married.</p>
<p>“Don’t,” he says. Pleads. It won’t matter, it would <em>never</em> matter, never change her mind, meaning his only chance is to <em>physically stop her,</em> find some way to gag her for the rest of existence. The Master lunges towards her, but all of her <em>fucking</em> humans and their well-trained hearts and teeth are there, a blur in blurring eyes that holds him back. “Don’t. Please. Please don’t do this to me, Doctor, don’t, <em>don’t.”</em></p>
<p>She’s shaking. He can see it, but he can also see her hands clenched into fists, the rigid spine, the lifted chin. “Husband,” she begins, but her voice breaks, chokes itself off. She looks away, and his mind can’t fully wrap around the words she says to her pets but they let him go.</p>
<p>All that means is he drops to the floor.</p>
<p>The Master doesn’t even mean to switch to Gallifreyan, but he does, begging, “If you ever loved me, Theta, even for a <em>second-”</em></p>
<p><em>“That’s why!”</em> she shouts at him. “That is why, husband, I have a request.”</p>
<p>“I will <em>never </em>forgive you for this,” he snarls, because there’s a <em>sliver</em> of a chance that she can turn it around, laugh and say <em>nevermind!</em> She won’t, but he grabs her hands, knows he’s crying from rage and terror, knows he’s <em>shouting</em> in her face. “You are <em>trapping me</em> in an <em>endless-”</em></p>
<p>“Don’t seek your own death. Ever. By my hand, by yours, or any other means.”</p>
<p>Spoken in the absolutist tense of an ultimatum. A vow. Something she will fight for, until her very last breath - which isn’t something the Timeless Child has.</p>
<p>The Doctor binds him to existing, forever, in the hellish way of the Frayed. Undeath, until the universe collapses, and maybe even beyond that.</p>
<p>“I will never forgive you,” he whispers, in the same exact tense.</p>
<p>He doesn’t do the shameful thing of trying to withdraw every other ultimatum, because those, too, remain true. He will <em>always</em> love the Doctor. He <em>is</em> the Doctor’s friend. And he will never, <em>never</em> forgive her.</p>
<p>She nods, and accepts it. “You can ask for something too,” she offers softly. Like it would help.</p>
<p>“And I will.” The Master says, and then switches out of Gallifreyan so every single person in the room - how lovely, all of them seeing him begging on his knees for her - hears it when he says, “I appreciate that I can still try to kill you. That’s nice, very kind of you.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well. Didn’t want to spoil <em>all </em>your fun,” she says, and tries for a smile.</p>
<p>“No, not my fun, just <em>fucking eternity,”</em> he snarls, and the TARDIS actually lets him curse. It’s a very clear indication that even the TARDIS knows what the Doctor just did was wrong. Cruel. The Master wipes furiously at his own face, cheeks, rakes fingers through his hair a bit too harshly. He lets out a bitter laugh. “Well, at least your TARDIS is on my side in this.”</p>
<p>“She’s good, my old girl,” the Doctor agrees. “And you’re right. You’ve always been right. My TARDIS is good, <em>inherently</em> good. But I’m not.”</p>
<p>With a roll of his eyes, the Master stands up. “Scaring your humans into leaving won’t make you feel better or fix what you’ve done,” he says, and walks deeper into the TARDIS, hoping she’ll give him something to destroy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The TARDIS gives him a bedroom with a lot of vases in it. She’s not on his side, because of course she’s not, it’s him versus <em>the Doctor,</em> but she at least agrees that the Doctor has gone too far. Much too far. Repeatedly.</p>
<p>And Lancthuwindirexelorisat has a lot of feelings about it. Lorisat had a lot of feelings, all the time, and has always been <em>vocal</em> about them, and the Master can’t get her or anyone else to <em>shut up,</em> because he can barely hear over his own pulse. Barely hear over the litany of denials in his mind, from himself and others and other versions of himself.</p>
<p>But Lorisat liked to pick flowers. She was that sort of idiot. Considered drop-dead gorgeous in each and every regeneration, she spent millennia in love with someone who didn’t love her back. There were others she loved, as that’s simply the nature of the world - hearts are rarely exclusionary through thirteen personalities and thousands of years - but Lorisat stayed connected to Deran for her entire life.</p>
<p>Deran was one of the few Time Lords who actually left Gallifrey regularly, and every single trip was to go fishing. Two blazing suns on windswept plains of red grass and the occasional silver-leaved forest was beautiful, but not exactly the best for fishing, eh? And there’s a right thrill from it, the patience rewarded with a <em>snap</em> on a good old fashioned string, nothing fancy for <em>this</em> Time Lord, oh, alright, maybe a bit of fancy bait but it was all strictly above-board, aside from some of the planets, but it’s not <em>endangered</em> if Deran goes back to when it <em>wasn’t</em> endangered, and there’s a thrill in the hunting - the killing - the fishing - the thrill the <em>thrill -</em></p>
<p>The Master hurls one of the vases against the wall with a scream so long and loud he can’t breathe at the end of it. He can’t - he can. He has to.</p>
<p>She took the choice away.</p>
<p>“Maybe if we regenerate again we’d turn out worthwhile,” he hears Missy whisper behind him. Except nobody’s there. Which he knows. He <em>knows</em> he’s alone in the room and the woman crying on the floor with a bouquet of silver veilbell flowers picked fresh off the slopes of Mount Stoutheart - there’s a stream, they played there as children, and Lorisat had sworn, <em>I will-</em></p>
<p>“I’ve dealt with this before, and I can deal with this again,” the Master says, and tries very very very very very very hard to ignore the...<em>everything.</em> Absolutely everything.</p>
<p>He’s so sick of his father’s silent presence, the stinging <em>awareness</em> of-</p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>The Master has long believed that the dead aren’t a tragedy. They’re a resource.</p>
<p>He imagines a box. It’s a big box, right now. Oven-sized. That should be big enough for this. He imagines the box holds all of these <em>wonderful</em> ghosts, the things he’s too pathetic and useless to contain instinctively right now. Deran and Lorisat go in the box, right along with the rest of the Matrix escapees</p>
<p>(“We’re not all so easy to get rid of,” Missy whispers against the back of his neck.)</p>
<p>and slams it shut.</p>
<p>The truth is that the Cyberium leaving <em>didn’t</em> break him, or make him worse. He lets them think that, lets the <em>Doctor</em> think that in particular, because it’s easier when they all have an excuse in their heads. If he’s broken because of a <em>thing,</em> rather than just permanently existing like this, people are more tolerant. Malleable.</p>
<p>If anything, the Cyberium <em>helped.</em></p>
<p>When a plan is going well, when he’s riding high on success, on <em>victory,</em> he gets a bit punchy. Murder-y. Reckless. It’s his greatest downfall, that along with the fact he so rarely has an escape plan because he never thinks he <em>needs one.</em> Oh no. He’s going to win.</p>
<p>When the Cyberium sank into him, it saw that flaw and concluded that the Master should put his TARDIS in an easily accessible location, Just In Case. And the Master did. It saw a host with a jumbled mistake of a brain and it <em>hurt,</em> it hurt so bad, but the Cyberium...cleaned things up, in a way. He could barely stand still, barely look in the same direction for five seconds, mind trapped in a burning chaos because <em>things were working, his plan was perfect, he’d get what he wants-</em></p>
<p>A thing like the Cyberium wasn’t going to let him infect it, wasn’t going to tolerate such a discordant host despite both being geniuses. So cool silver liquid flooded and caressed his mind. It stole away so much of his life but oh, the things they could’ve done together. The things they almost did together.</p>
<p>The Cyberium ripping out of his head didn’t break him. The Cyberium <em>honed</em> him, but it was - it would’ve taken a while. It wasn’t done. So all it did was smother the fires and tidy up a bit and then, well, maybe they <em>did</em> learn from each other. Self-preservation was once a very big concern for the Master, after all.</p>
<p>And now, here he is. Staring at a wall of vases, standing in the shards and wondering how sharp they are.</p>
<p>There’s no plan to work on. There’s no city to burn, no questions to investigate, no Doctor to obsess over, because he doesn’t want her. For the first time in millennia, he doesn’t want the Doctor anywhere near him and wishes they’d been one of the incarnations where they simply passed each other in the hall with a nod. Centuries, <em>millennia</em> of pining, and he should’ve known the only way he could have the Doctor is when it feels like her greatest betrayal yet.</p>
<p>The Master is tired in a different way than the overwhelming drop-and-scream exhaustion. It’s hotter, and not in a fun way, more like someone dipped his hearts in acid. But worse. Much, much worse.</p>
<p>He grabs another vase, and means to throw it, but instead wraps his arms around the ceramic, hugs it against his chest.</p>
<p>Never. Forever. They’re terrifying words.</p>
<p>(So are <em>love is a promise</em> in a world where the only thing keeping him ruthlessly shackled is words, but he’s not acknowledging that right now. Talk about counterproductive.)</p>
<p>The Master puts the vase back. He takes his shoes off, undresses down to his shirt, and drops onto the TARDIS-provided bed, to watch the TARDIS-provided screen. At least he can be comfortable while the weight of eternity presses down on him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Contact,</em> the Doctor sends. It’s hesitant, a polite tap on his mind.</p>
<p>The Master does <em>not</em> let her in. Doesn’t even acknowledge her. The Doctor backs away, and doesn’t argue with the answer she’s given.</p>
<p>Time passes.</p>
<p><em>Contact,</em> the Doctor sends, and knocks on his mind like she’s too cowardly to do to his bedroom door. He doesn’t reply. The Doctor puts a little more energy into it. <em>Contact.</em> It borders on the sensation of,<em> Contact, please?</em></p>
<p><em>No,</em> the Master sends back, and ignores the next two attempts. After that, she stops.</p>
<p>Time passes.</p>
<p><em>Contact,</em> the Doctor sends, firm this time. An expectation of reply. <em>Contact. Talk to me.</em></p>
<p><em>No,</em> the Master sends back. She keeps trying, so he grits his teeth. <em>I said <strong>no</strong>, fuck off.</em></p>
<p><em>Contact!</em> She sends. It’s a <em>bang bang bang</em> hammering on his mind. <em>Talk to me! Talk to me talk to me talk to me contact contact-</em></p>
<p><em>You want to connect? Fine,</em> the Master bites out, and uses that invitation of a two-way link to go into <em>her</em> mind instead.</p>
<p>It’s the TARDIS, of course. The Doctor looks genuinely shocked that he’s here. Part of that might be the fact when he arrives, he has momentum, grabbing her shoulders and slamming her <em>hard</em> against one of the pillars.</p>
<p>The Master did not start this. He entered her mind already moving. Meaning this was <em>her</em> choice. Her thought.</p>
<p>“You’re allowed to be angry,” the Doctor rushes to say.</p>
<p>“Because it’s what <em>you </em>want!” the Master shouts at her, and the words are <em>mostly</em> his, meaning he’s stepping into the shoes of a projection. He breathes, and watches the Doctor’s face. “You <em>want</em> me to be angry. Make you pay. Make you <em>hurt,</em> so we’d be even, is that it?”</p>
<p>She doesn’t push him away. Her eyes shut, hearts pounding.</p>
<p>Suspicious.</p>
<p>It takes exactly one glance vaguely downwards for him to figure out what’s happening. The Master smirks. “Having mixed feelings on - how’d you put it? <em>Claiming</em> me?” She shudders, and isn’t that <em>fascinating,</em> the way she tries to bury it down and fails. Still, he doesn’t move from the position <em>her</em> brain decided it wants him in. “Is this what you’re expecting now?”</p>
<p>“Wha - <em>oh!”</em> she says, because her brain finally acknowledged they’re both in their spy tuxedos, bowties long gone, <em>many</em> buttons undone. The Doctor, despite being over 2000 years old, blushes a brilliant crimson. And yet, she still doesn’t push him away, doesn’t move beyond turning her head to look at the TARDIS console instead of him. Doesn’t change their location, either. “No, no. This isn’t what I intended, this - I was just having <em>thoughts,</em> nothing wrong with that. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”</p>
<p>“No, you want an angry fuck in the console room,” the Master says.</p>
<p>There’s something so satisfying to see her blush go all the way down to her chest. But this is still the Doctor, and the Doctor counters with a challenge in her eyes. “And you don’t?”</p>
<p>Nothing here is real. He could hurt her, and she’d <em>remember,</em> memory lasting as if it happened in reality. The Master moves one of his hands up to wrap around her neck, and she doesn’t do anything about it other than take a sharp breath in when he squeezes. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make sure she knows <em>it could.</em></p>
<p>What does he want?</p>
<p>“I want you to ask, <em>politely,</em> using my name,” he says, and the Doctor scoffs, just a degree or two away from a sneer. Because that’s <em>too much</em> to ask.</p>
<p>So, he takes his hands off the Doctor, and steps backwards. She is <em>visibly</em> surprised, actually looking at the Master, blinking. “Are you serious?”</p>
<p>“If you want <em>this-”</em> the Master gestures at her lovely little hate-fuck scenario, “-then you have to ask nicely.”</p>
<p>“Since when?” she asks, and it <em>hurts</em> that this is an honest question, genuinely confused by the Master’s simple request.</p>
<p>Because this is what he is to her. What <em>they</em> are, in her eyes. The Master is always there, if she wants him. Always the first option available, and the last option she chooses.</p>
<p>He doesn’t know what the Doctor sees in his face, but her confusion changes into - what? Pity, probably. “Master?”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk to me,” he whispers, and drops out of the Doctor’s mind without another word.</p>
<p>She doesn’t bother him again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>The Master has dreams of shutting himself in a box, making another vault for himself, because if he stays in the box, the Doctor will love him again. If he doesn’t move, if he stays <em>perfectly still,</em> if he only speaks when spoken to, she (it’s always his Doctor, now) will eventually, <em>eventually</em> show up. He’s sure of it. If he stays in the box she’ll open it. Eventually. She will.</p>
<p>If he’s in the box, he can’t see her leave. He can’t see her walk up to the box and change her mind and walk away again. He knows she does it, but at least he doesn’t have to watch.</p>
<p>If she comes inside, if he’s good and she comes inside, she can make it quiet. She could hold his head and say <em>shhh</em> and make everything shut up because she’s as close to a god as Time Lords have. She could brush hair away from his forehead and she wouldn’t go in his mind, wouldn’t connect, because even in the box it’s not pleasant in the Master’s head and she shouldn’t have to deal with that.</p>
<p>He hates the box.</p>
<p>He hates waiting.</p>
<p>He hates being <em>good.</em></p>
<p>But if he does wait, then this might happen - his Doctor kneeling down next to where the Master rocks on the floor, arms wrapping around him and holding him close, whispering, “You’re okay, I’ve got you, I love you. Forever. I love you.”</p>
<p>In the dream, he waits. He waits and waits and waits and thinks of how it’ll be worth every single second, when she comes. When she loves him again.</p>
<p>And when the Master wakes up from that stupid <em>fucking</em> dream, he tends to burn cities down.</p>
<p>The Master doesn’t sleep much.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s probably some semblance of a morning when the Master finally heads back to the console room. It’s morning somewhere, statistically. Many somewheres. He’s not exactly looking put together, hasn’t done much more than brush his teeth in...however long, barely bothered with half the buttons on his shirt and waistcoat, and left the actual coat on the floor. Didn’t bother with shoes, either. Overall, the Master looks like he’s had an <em>extremely</em> rough night or two. Or three?</p>
<p>The TARDIS helpfully informs him it’s been about eight days since he moved.</p>
<p>Eight days, of the Master increasingly giving not a single fuck about anything at all. He feels filthy and jittery and he’s here because he <em>needs</em> to move, needs to need things.</p>
<p>When he actually walks in, <em>everyone</em> is still there. All of them. He freezes in the doorway, because yes, one two three bland little humans, one freak, one Doctor. “You haven’t landed anywhere?”</p>
<p>“Well, we’re letting the TARDIS… you know,” the Doctor says. “Sort of swim free, go wherever she wants.”</p>
<p>“Don’t lie to me.” There’s more menace in those words than he intended. And it’s <em>sincere,</em> until the Master tells himself it’s not, and he’s - there’s plenty of things here, things to do other than break the shards of already-broken vases or watch soap opera reruns, so he heads over to the pillar the TARDIS asked him to look at, what feels like lifetimes ago. And talks. “Is there an actual reason we’re floating in the vortex, or is it an act of idiotic sentimentality?”</p>
<p>“Second one,” the Doctor admits.</p>
<p>“Figures,” he mutters, and starts poking through the TARDIS’s circuitry. It’s a mess. No surprise there. He nearly irreparably bends one of the cables when it’s <em>stubborn</em> but the Master takes a breath and berates the cable with insults beneath his breath instead. It’s unsatisfying. His hands twitch.</p>
<p>After a good number of minutes when the Master is the only person in the room actually doing something, or <em>trying</em> to do something at least, and is growing <em>increasingly</em> irritated by that fact, the Doctor says, “Alright if I drop you off in Sheffield for an hour or two?”</p>
<p>There are sounds of agreement, and there’s more discussion, and the Master can’t hear it. He’s so annoyed, he’s so <em>mad.</em> He’s...he’s <em>trying</em> to focus, but it’s getting increasingly difficult, like herding cats, very <em>angry</em> cats that he wants to squish, and he - oh, this isn’t good.</p>
<p>It’s only two millennia of experience and a couple hundred in this body, where it happens so rarely in comparison, that lets him say, “Doctor, I’m going to start killing people.”</p>
<p>“Is that a threat?” Ryan asks.</p>
<p>“Opposite, actually. No, no time! Go. Jack, get them and yourself somewhere safe-”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, which of us is immortal again?” Jack snipes.</p>
<p><em>“Three</em> of us, that’s how many,” the Master growls. And he’s just...<em>so angry.</em> So unfathomably deeply angry, furious and <em>hurt</em> and does it matter? What does? <em>Anything?</em> No. He’s the only one useful or doing anything, the only one who <em>cares</em> and they all just stare at him and hate him and he hates them right back.</p>
<p>The Doctor is at the door, and the Master doesn’t look at his <em>betrayer</em> not yet, no, not yet, and she says, “Try and hold it off, if you can. As long as you can.”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me what to do,” the Master breathes out, and there’s the sound of feet, running away from him. Leaving him, like always. Like <em>fucking</em> always.</p>
<p>He’s standing up, hands strangling one of the railings with a sense that he needs to do this, shouldn’t turn around - but <em>why not?</em> Why the <em>fuck</em> not. He lets go of the railing, shakes his hands out, rolls his shoulders. This version of himself doesn’t move enough, he needs to move more, get some pep in his step.</p>
<p>The freak is there. He’s standing in between the console room and the rest of the TARDIS, and the Master can <em>feel him,</em> an anomaly, wrong wrong wrong.</p>
<p>“Can’t remember why I was trying to be good,” the Master comments, because <em>intellectually,</em> he’s aware the Doctor asked. But why actually do it? Probably to make the Doctor love him, because he’s pathetic like that. And he scoffs at the thought. <em>Laughs</em> at the thought.</p>
<p>This is the thing - his thoughts are so loud and fast and <em>furious</em> that to someone outside, he looks crazy, laughing for no reason. But he looks at Jack, and smiles, and can’t stop <em>laughing.</em> “Did the Doctor gather you all together, gossip about me, <em>laugh</em> about me? No, no, don’t deny it, I <em>know.</em> Of course it’s what she did.”</p>
<p>“How do I help?” Jack asks.</p>
<p>The Master tilts his head to the side. “With what?”</p>
<p>The freak looks conflicted now.</p>
<p><em>Ah,</em> the Master nods, yes, understands. And shakes his head no to the actual question. “No no no no, nope, ‘fraid not. Can’t help the Doctor on this one. And I can’t tell you to kill me, and we’re married. <em>Again.</em> As if last time didn’t end badly enough - he left me to have kids. Did you know that? Sweet beautiful Theta wanted a family more than he <em>ever</em> wanted me.” He laughs. <em>“Children.</em> You put in so much work, and then they just die anyway - you know, I think I genuinely loved my daughter? Did you know that? My little girl, her first body had the <em>worst</em> teeth and it’s a real question, whether or not to get braces when you can just...have new teeth. Your <em>first</em> face, that’s special. It’s always nice when the Doctor’s blonde.”</p>
<p>And he waits.</p>
<p>Jack waits right back.</p>
<p><em>“Talk!”</em> the Master <em>screams</em> at him, and paces, furiously. “Is this a conversation or am I going to get <em>bored</em> and give up and just kill people?” It’d be just desserts, well worth it, they all <em>should</em> - you know, he <em>should</em> go kill them. No. He squeezes his eyes shut, sinks down, puts his arms over his head like it can <em>slow things down</em> even if it can’t, nothing can. “I’m <em>very</em> angry. I’m very very angry. So if the Doctor comes-”</p>
<p>“I get it, we’ve got it covered,” Jack says. “You’re - is it helpful if I say you’re doing good?”</p>
<p>“Good is a four letter word, <em>Captain,</em> I’m amazed the TARDIS lets you get away with it,” he says, and snorts in amusement, drops onto his back. “What are you a Captain of, anyway? Or did you decide to go full farce of a Time Lord and pick a title?”</p>
<p>“No, but I’m considering it now. Think I could get away with that too?” Jack asks.</p>
<p>“I am of two minds on this topic, and the one that is surprisingly comfortable on the floor is winning,” the Master says. “The other wants to claw your eyes out and see how long it takes to grow them back. But why not. No Time Lords around anymore to get mad about it.” He makes a considering noise. “You know, when I’m trapped alone I just take it out on myself, or rip things apart like a rabid dog. Bite things, break things, kill things. Sometimes I go through whole planets without it stopping. I’d <em>love</em> to kill you, but you’re disgusting. And the floor really <em>is</em> comfortable.”</p>
<p>“Well that’s good, since you spend a lot of time there.”</p>
<p>He sighs up at the ceiling. “I thought this was genetic. My little girl, she got it too. But then I found out they did this to me, over and <em>over</em> and over again, I’m <em>frayed.</em> They just won’t let me die. <em>Nobody</em> will let me die, and I...this body, it’s better at it. Sort of. Better at <em>these</em> explosions, at least.” When you’re constantly low energy, <em>lots</em> of energy just feels...angry. And peppy. And wrong. There’s a lot of things that are wrong about this and he can <em>tell</em> for once but that doesn’t mean he can stop. The Master grimaces, and gets back on his feet, pacing. Again. He’s antsy. “I want to do something. The TARDIS won’t let me and you’re gross and I want - I <em>need</em> to do <em>something.”</em></p>
<p>“We can figure that out,” Jack says. “Do you know how long this is going to keep up?”</p>
<p>“Depends on the regeneration, really,” the Master says, and, sure, why the fuck not. He starts climbing on the TARDIS walls. He has to focus a bit. Has to move. Also has a useful element of <em>what the fuck am I doing?</em> curling around in the back of his mind. Killing people? That can make sense. Using the TARDIS as a climbing gym? Not so much. But he tries to focus on the question. “This time around it’s not - well, it varies. A lot. But Saxon, the me who tortured you for a year? It was basically this, but <em>all the time.</em> Every waking moment. I was so <em>alive</em>, each and every <em>second</em> was spent being the greatest creature in the universe.”</p>
<p>And there’s the <em>rage,</em> back full force.</p>
<p>He drops off the wall. Manages to focus on grabbing his hair, long enough to say, “I’m going to end up killing you. Soon. Very soon.” He shudders. “I don’t think I want to.”</p>
<p>“Aw, thanks,” Jack says, and smiles, and <em>what does that mean</em>. “You’re not too bad yourself.”</p>
<p>“Gross, Jack, don’t you know I’m a <em>married man?”</em> the Master asks, and. And laughs. It’s like a fever, eyes hot with tears, shortness of breath, head racing, blood pumping. “I tried, you know, this time I <em>really really</em> tried, but killing people, it’s just...” He laughs, and pulls at his waistcoat, unbuttons the single button he’d closed. Pulls it off. “It feels so nice. And I’m <em>so good</em> at it.”</p>
<p>“It’s just going to make you mad, but I still want to say you did good here. Everyone got out, you didn’t hurt anyone, you’re not going to kill anyone,” Jack says. And he’s very right. About the making him mad part.</p>
<p>The Master grips his waistcoat so hard he’s close to ripping the seams, trying <em>so hard</em> to not look at Jack. His fragile, stabbable, strangleable, breakable neck. The Master sighs, very unimpressed by this...<em>thing.</em> And yet, he says, “You're someone, freak.”</p>
<p>“Flattery <em>and</em> a pet name,” Jack says.</p>
<p>Or tries to.</p>
<p>The Master slides forward and loops his rolled-up waistcoat around Jack’s <em>neck,</em> necks are good, and pulls tighter and tighter and tighter and he watches Jack gasp and choke and go purple and it’s hilarious, it’s powerful, it’s <em>wonderful, why did he ever stop doing this</em> and Jack tries to say something, probably his name, and the Master <em>can’t </em></p>
<p>
  <em>stop </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>laughing.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. An Invitation To Explode</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>The fic rating is now E for Explicit!</b> I really didn't like the idea of just posting with a surprise rating change so the smut has been replaced with a fade to black in-fic, and the graphic version is getting posted separately. A link to the side smut is in-fic, but any future sexy bits <i>will</i> be contained in-fic after this. (Unless you'd prefer they're kept separate - opinions are very welcome, tbh.)</p><p>  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29515485">Here's the removed portion!</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s not that the Master <em>wakes up</em> so much as he has a moment of <em>hold on, what am I doing?</em> But he knows what he’s been doing. He’s been very <em>deliberate</em> about what he’s been doing. So it’s more a question of, <em>why?</em></p><p>There’s a lot of blood. Jack is alive again, and his clothes are soaked through with blood. The floor isn’t quite <em>puddles</em> of red but it’s a lot. And the Master is casually leaning against the wall, holding a large curved shard of porcelain in his own bloody hands, palms sticky with it, shirt and pants darker in wet patches.</p><p>The stained porcelain of Missy’s shattered teapot drops out of his fingers.</p><p>He doesn’t ask <em>how long,</em> because the moment the question passes his mind, the TARDIS informs him it’s been about 40 minutes. Which is <em>nothing.</em> Sometimes it goes for hours, days, weeks. Months. <em>Years.</em> And it was just 40 minutes.</p><p>It always feels so <em>reasonable,</em> in times like those 40 minutes. Still does, in a lot of ways, since the primary reasoning was <em>why not, they’re all laughing at me, conspiring, plotting against me, lying to me, I should make them hurt like they’re hurting me before it’s too late,</em> and is that true? It feels true. <em>They all hate me, then I’ll give them something to hate,</em> and that meant slicing Jack apart with an unsatisfying lack of resistance on the freak’s part.</p><p>“I’m done,” the Master says. But he imagines Yaz running in, bright smile and heart still intact, so the Master rolls his eyes and amends that to, “I <em>think</em> I’m done killing things.”</p><p>“Really?” Jack asks with a voice suited to swallowing sandpaper, looking at the Master like he just walked on water.</p><p>His skin still feels like it’s humming, brain rushing, noises irritating, words irritating, <em>everything irritating,</em> but he doesn’t <em>need</em> to hurt them.</p><p>The Master nods. “Done killing for no reason, at least.” And he gives up on trying to figure out what he could wipe his hands on, just runs bloodsoaked fingers through his hair to get it out of his eyes. He lets out a jittery breath, and doesn’t even try to find his waistcoat. “Well. Thanks for the fun.”</p><p>Jack nods, wary, and is smart enough to not say anything while the Master gets out of the console room and walks wherever the TARDIS is sending him. She won’t send him anywhere dangerous, and it takes barely a minute of walking for him to see places where blood off his fingers is already streaked across the wall. She’s got him walking in a circle.</p><p>“Stop it. Just get me to a shower,” the Master says, <em>controlling</em> the anger. No shouting, <em>no </em>no no, he keeps it down, keeps walking, and there’s a door to his left and the Master opens it, walks in, sees the TARDIS obeyed. It’s dismally Earth-y, probably one of the many bathrooms she’s cooked up for the pets over the years, but he is past being picky at this point. His clothes are sticky and hard to get off and he hates it. He hates a lot of things. So many many things, but he throws his clothes into the bathroom sink and gets into the shower without waiting for it to warm up.</p><p>It takes a long time for the water to run clear down the drain.</p><p>He does not like the fact he smells like the Doctor when he’s done. It’s distracting, like seeing someone just out of the corner of his eye. And he <em>also</em> does not like the fact he only has his bloody clothes available, but if it’s the only option - well, no, there’s a wardrobe. Was that always there? Who cares. She’s a TARDIS. They do that. (He misses his own.) It’s not even that surprising when he pulls out a perfect replica of the destroyed clothing in the sink.</p><p>There are no replicas of his shoes, because he wasn’t wearing any. But it does have shoes of previous TARDIS-friendly versions of him. Which gives two options. Koschei (on a madcap adventure with Theta, still wearing an Academy uniform) and Missy.</p><p>He looks at shoes, just <em>shoes,</em> and he’s so angry he’s furious he’s <em>so mad</em> and at least he thinks to wrap a towel around his hand - he’s smart, he’s a <em>genius -</em> before he punches the mirror. It’s not enough. The Master - he’s this now, not Missy, <em>not Missy</em> - rips the bathroom apart.</p><p>He’s so mad.</p><p>And when it’s done, when he’s out of breath and things to shatter or rip off the wall, he feels so <em>satisfied,</em> looking at the bathroom. It’s good. It’s much better this way. And when the Master walks out, he feels <em>great.</em></p><p>The swirls and dips of where his fingers trailed blood on the walls really <em>are</em> pretty, a bit like avant-garde interior design. It’s an easy assumption that the Doctor will likely be trying to land the TARDIS somewhere, so the Master heads on back with a hop in his step that he’s <em>missed,</em> oh, he missed this feeling. <em>So much.</em> Sure, he should probably worry about how easy getting around feels in comparison to this regeneration’s level of ‘normal’ but why do that when there’s <em>fun</em> to be had.</p><p>The Master feels the TARDIS <em>shift,</em> as an actual destination is set. Finally.</p><p>Everyone can technically hear him coming before he gets in, what with him humming and the heels click-clacking nice and pretty. He wanted shoes and the TARDIS only wanted to give the Master things from previous TARDIS-friendly incarnations, meaning he’s stuck between Missy and his very first body, and heels really <em>are</em> lovely, aren’t they? He likes the sense of <em>presence.</em> Why did he stop wearing them?</p><p>One two three humans, one freak, one Doctor. Gang’s all here, and the puddle of blood is all cleaned up, which he’s not pleased by. The walls are nice in the corridors, and <em>that,</em> he could’ve improved that. Worked things out, a bit.</p><p>“Master?” the Doctor calls, because he waltzed over to the absence of a blood pool, humming to himself instead of actually saying anything. Oops.</p><p>“I won’t kill anyone. Unless it’s funny. Probably,” he tells the Doctor, because that’s the thing she cares about. Always the humans. <em>Always the bridesmaids, never the bride,</em> oh, so tragic. The burden of marriage. But he stands up and smiles at the Doctor, doesn’t bother with the others since they don’t matter. “Where are we headed, then?”</p><p>The Doctor watches him very carefully. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Betrayed! Which isn’t going away any time soon,” he says, but still finds himself smiling, tucking his hands into his pockets. At least he feels nice and isn’t bitter about the <em>don’t kill yourself</em> thing right now. “You?”</p><p>“Confused. I’ve known you for 2000 years and you’ve <em>never</em> warned me, so why now?” She looks him up and down, squinting at his face. “Or have you always been able to?”</p><p>“I could tell because I’m never <em>up</em> anymore, it’s just down down <em>down</em>, constantly. Incessantly, like I’m the poor robot at the end of <em>Terminator</em> - I’m considering building you one of those, by the way. Or at least making a shoddy vortex manipulator that burns people’s clothes off,” he says, looking around the room. At the humans, who are clumped near the console - right, because he’s still locked out of that. Supposedly. “Do any of you have my waistcoat? Last I remember was strangling Jack with it.”</p><p>“In the armchair,” Jack says.</p><p>“Ahh, yes. No better man to have when there’s clothes thrown around a room,” the Master says with a wink, and trots over to the chair. The Doctor is irked and <em>clearly</em> wants to say something, and Jack is also very torn between playing with the Master and being a good boy for the Doctor, so it’s the best of both worlds. When he sees the state of the waistcoat, though, he grimaces. More than a little bit wrinkled, with splotches of blood. <em>Still,</em> it’s his, and he likes it, so he puts it on. “We should go do something <em>fun.</em> I’m in the mood to conquer something. We could make it a race! You take one continent and I’ll take another, eh?”</p><p>The TARDIS rematerializes.</p><p>And that means <em>opportunity,</em> just on the other side of the doors. “Ooh, where are we?”</p><p>“This isn’t an apology, and it’s not a reward,” the Doctor says, in the way that means she’s trying to convince herself more than anyone else.</p><p>So, he pouts at her. “But don’t I <em>deserve</em> one? You said it yourself, 2000 years and I suddenly try to be <em>safe</em> for your little pets.” He waves towards the once-bloodsoaked corner. “I even kept the blood in one spot!” Not <em>intentionally</em>, but still.</p><p>The Doctor looks extremely unimpressed, but the Master knows it’s yet another lie for the sake of appearances. “You think that deserves a reward? Not killing my killable best friends is a <em>very</em> low bar-”</p><p>“It’s really not,” he says, dead serious, because he <em>fought</em> for that and - but no, she doesn’t understand. She can’t. Not like this, at least, so he grins at her and lifts his hands, wiggles his fingers at her. “Do you want to see what it’s like? I could show you. Want to <em>understand,</em> Doctor?”</p><p>Jack, of all people, looks at the Master and says, “You did good.” When everyone else gives him a look of incredulity, he shrugs. “He’s murdered me and tortured me to death before. This was almost <em>polite </em>compared to what he did on the Valiant.”</p><p>“Maybe spare the children’s sensitivities, hm?” the Master says.</p><p>It’s mostly because the Master can remember stabbing Jack in the throat just a few hours ago and asking what it was like when he dies. Do you see anything, do you <em>feel</em> anything, is it quiet is it peaceful is it soft and dark and silent, what if I kill you <em>just so, is it good, is it anything like what I dream?</em></p><p>Jack gives him one short nod. He’s a smart cookie, for a freakish not-human.</p><p>“We’re not children,” Ryan says.</p><p>The Master grins, and says, “I was mostly thinking about Graham. She has <em>types,</em> you see - the plucky adventurer, the moral backbone, the bleeding heart.” And he points at her ‘friends’ in turn, Yaz and Ryan and Graham.</p><p>“What are you, then?” Ryan asks, like it’s some sort of challenge. Poor thing.</p><p>With a sigh, he says, “Well she’s stabbed me in the back often enough that bleeding-”</p><p>“Enough,” the Doctor says with a glare. “And I do not have <em>types.”</em> </p><p>Unimpressed, the Master points towards Jack. “Plucky adventurer.”</p><p>Jack doesn’t object.</p><p><em>“Point is,</em> there’s unfinished business and I waited for you,” the Doctor says. “But first.” And she holds up the anklet, ignoring his immediate burst of fury to say, “The <em>only</em> thing it’s set to do is tie our personal timelines together so you can’t run off for 20 years and look like you never left. That’s all. That is <em>all</em> it’s set to do, I swear. No proximity sensor, no control chip, it’s just for syncing personal timelines.”</p><p>“No. No, no, <em>no,</em> I’m well aware of what this is, Doctor, and it’s the first step towards putting <em>me</em> in the vault,” he snarls, and <em>no,</em> he’s not doing that. He walks closer with every intention of grabbing the anklet and destroying it.</p><p>Only problem with that plan is the Doctor walks forward to meet him with just as much urgency, dropping the anklet on the console before intercepting him. “It’s not. It’s <em>not,</em> Master, it’s - you need help, and I don’t want to lose you.”</p><p>“Look at you, already starting in on the sweet little lies when we’ve barely started fighting,” he says. “No, you want to <em>control me,</em> turn me into another copy of you when <em>I’m already a copy of you</em> so forget that. Not happening. And apparently I need to remind you <em>again</em> that <em>I’m not Missy.”</em></p><p>“I know you’re not, because I lost her,” the Doctor says, and for a moment, it’s not <em>his </em>Doctor’s eyes. It’s Missy’s Doctor, shining with the kind of grief and loss that is reserved for important things. The Doctor takes his hands, and he can’t breathe for a moment. “This isn’t me asking you to rehabilitate, or even stay with me. All I’m asking is we walk at the same pace.”</p><p>He is not over Missy’s Doctor. He is in no way shape or form even remotely over Missy’s Doctor, wasn’t when he regenerated and still isn’t even with <em>his</em> Doctor around. Oh, sure, they’re the same person, but it’s like how he and Missy are the same person. How he and Koschei are the same person. The core is the same, but the meatsuit and the personality change.</p><p>Missy’s Doctor, though. The Scottish asshole with poetry in his veins and curmudgeonly sass in his big stupid eyebrows over an audacious grin, <em>oh, </em>the man was a massacre. He would have slaughtered the entirety of Bristol with a single smile if humans had any common sense. So of course Missy didn’t try to escape. Not when <em>that</em> was giving her undivided attention, even sporadically.</p><p>But that’s not who the Doctor is now.</p><p>It’s obvious in the way the Doctor holds his hands. Missy’s Doctor held them like a gift he was trying not to break. Meanwhile, <em>his</em> Doctor holds the Master’s hands like she’s keeping him from getting towed away in a current, tight and unmovable. The Doctor went from being a brutally honest liar to an evasive smiling mask on top of ruthless insecurity.</p><p>Honestly, the Master’s not sure he’d be able to survive the sincerity of Missy’s Doctor.</p><p><em>His</em> Doctor takes a deep breath and gives the Master an anxious, “Alright?”</p><p>They aren’t the same people. They’re past the box, past a delicate fragility of attempted honesty.</p><p>And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.</p><p>“Put it on, then.”</p><p>The Doctor is visibly confused. <em>“You</em> wear it. It’s tied to-”</p><p>“I understand that. And if you want me to wear it, you’re the one putting it on me,” the Master says with a level of patience he should get a standing ovation. Honestly, her eye roll deserves applause too, but the Master cuts off whatever delightful snarky quip she’s about to let out by putting a finger over her lips. “This isn’t negotiable, Doctor. I’m not going to <em>physically shackle myself</em> to you. Not after everything you’ve done.”</p><p>She glances back towards her pets, because this version of the Doctor is so worried about what the humans will think, all the time. That’s the point of this.</p><p>“Don’t fret, I won’t kick you in the mouth while you’re on your knees in front of me,” the Master says cheerily. He moves his finger and instead boops the tip of her nose with a grin, because the Doctor <em>hates</em> it when he does that, always has and always will. “And if that’s too much to ask, we can forget the whole thing.”</p><p>The Doctor lets out a deeply irritated breath, looking at the wall instead of him. “Fine. Go sit-”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Gritting her teeth, the Doctor says, “You don’t <em>have</em> to be difficult, you know. It’s not a <em>requirement</em> when you’re compromising, plenty of people-”</p><p>“Seriously? You get <em>tied timelines</em> in exchange for a little bit of kneeling, and I’m <em>still</em> asking too much of you,” he says. The indignation is only half feigned, hurt on his face a smidge true but very exaggerated. “You won’t put the anklet on me, you marry me to force me into things, you won’t even <em>ask nicely</em> for sex-”</p><p><em>“Okay,</em> everyone, if you’d head out a bit early and we’ll catch up,” the Doctor shouts towards the humans, wearing the tight not-quite-panicky smile of someone desperately hoping the humans didn’t hear that. “Just keep Robertson from running. Or catch him.” She grimaces. “You’ll probably have to catch him.”</p><p>“Is it safe to leave you alone with him?” Yaz asks.</p><p>The Master grins, and is about to say <em>not one bit</em> but the Doctor beats him to it, spinning towards the humans and rocking back on her feet, talking with her hands that is more about fidgety lying than anything else. “Oh, it’s fine, we’re fine, just, you know. Talking!”</p><p>Behind her, the Master makes very visible quotation marks in the air during the word <em>talking.</em></p><p>The Doctor, who is not (currently) blind, continues to face her fam as she elbows him in the stomach, like the asshole she is.</p><p>“If you’re avoiding witnesses, I’m going to make them wonder what you’re hiding,” the Master says, quiet enough that only the Doctor can hear. And then he does exactly that, brushing hair away from her ear. “You haven’t done jewelry before.”</p><p>And oh my, she actually <em>shivers</em> a bit at that. All he does is try to annoy her and get a better look at her earring (it really is pretty) and it makes the Doctor <em>shiver.</em> It’s ridiculous. And marvelous.</p><p>It also gets her pets to evacuate at a record speed.</p><p>But the level of sensitivity also raises a genuine question, which is, “How often do you touch people?”</p><p>“This body isn’t big on physical contact,” the Doctor says, which is hilarious because the second he puts his fingertips on the side of her neck, a soft bit of curious contact, she lets out a shuddering breath. “That’s - I just don’t like it.”</p><p>“Clearly, you’re absolutely hating this,” he says, and steps closer, until her back is barely a finger’s width away from his chest. Her pulse is already a chaotic mess, just from <em>proximity.</em> Proximity and fingers sliding up and down her neck. And this was not his intention, <em>at all,</em> but the Master lets her feel his breath against the back of her neck. “Ask nicely.”</p><p>“I’ve never needed to before,” she says, like it’s a challenge, or maybe a reprimand. And it’s true. The fact she presses back against him is usually <em>more</em> than enough of an invitation.</p><p>But, not right now. It’s enough for him to press his other hand against her stomach - still fully clothed. “That was then, this is now, and <em>now</em> you need to say please.” And the Doctor <em>tries</em> to be irritated, but he moves his hand down, fingers reaching her waistband, and she lets out another shaky breath. Just that, and she’s tense in a very different way that makes him grin against the back of her neck. “One little word, just-”</p><p>“Please,” she blurts out.</p><p>Well. That was easy.</p><p>There’s clearly <em>something else</em> going on in her head about this, considering the way she unclips the braces and gets naked from the waist down at a speed more suited to spilling flesh-burning acid than sex. It is <em>very</em> hard to not laugh at her, so he occupies his mouth by kissing the other side of her neck. He’s gentle about it, soft, and she can probably feel the smile but that’s fine. Smiling is fine. <em>Laughing,</em> not so much if he doesn’t want her to smack him and walk away.</p><p>“I said please,” the Doctor says, and her hands are clenched into fists, arms rigid and still at her sides. “Please, <em>Master.</em> Is that what you need?”</p><p>“This <em>screams </em>intimacy issues, just so you know,” he says against her skin, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29515485">but obliges her. It’s only fair.</a></p><p>He <em>intends</em> to just get her off with his hand, and then have her kneel, <em>possibly</em> give him a blowjob if she doesn’t get grumpy about it, and move on. That’s the plan. But then he finds out the intimacy issues are <em>inexperience</em> issues and helping with that gets...out of hand. A bit.</p><p>Long story short, they fuck and it’s the Doctor’s fault because she’s always been a selfish brat during sex, because it works on him. And results tend to be good. Very, very good.</p><p>“I’m sitting down now,” he says after pulling out of her, ignoring the disappointed noise, and lets himself drop to the floor - makes it casual, controlled-looking and stuff, of course. It’s not very surprising when the Doctor follows him right on down, and right into his lap.</p><p>This is a Doctor thing. The cuddles. Apparently it’s actually a common thing, the urge to press close to your partner and kiss while still high on endorphins and orgasms. She’s filthy and ruining his pants but he’s fine with that. The TARDIS can give him more, and he likes the little noises she makes between kisses. Likes the things she says, telling him he’s good and special and pretty. With anyone else, the Master can’t get away from this sort of thing fast enough, but with <em>her,</em> with the Doctor, well. It’s not uncommon for this part to go longer than the actual sex, and he lets it go as long as the Doctor wants.</p><p>So when the door creaks open after who knows how long, that’s what they see and hear. The Doctor, naked in his lap, stroking fingers through his hair while the Master keeps his face pressed against her neck, pressing the occasional kiss against her skin, and listens to her saying, “So smart and pretty, so clever, with your <em>terrible</em> plans that are so cute, just like you, Master. You’re so <em>good,</em> make me feel so good, aren’t you so lovely.”</p><p>The door shuts again. It’s a <em>lot</em> louder when it shuts than it was opening.</p><p>The Doctor tenses, head jerking towards the door. He watches the curious situation of her skin alternating between a furious blush and a pale sort of dread. “Oh no,” she whispers.</p><p>“Hm?” he asks, and moves his mouth to nip at her ear instead. When she doesn’t start talking again, he pulls back enough to actually look at her face. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“This wasn’t okay,” she says.</p><p>The Master rolls his eyes. “If it bothers you that much, I’ll go wipe their memories.”</p><p>“No, that’s not what I mean - no, you didn’t do anything, it’s okay, <em>it’s okay,”</em> she says, and goes back to petting his hair and saying things are okay, and he’s <em>very</em> confused by whatever the fuck is going on. Because if <em>they</em> aren’t the problem, <em>he</em> is, but she’s saying he’s not, and he has no clue what <em>wasn’t okay</em> about this - <em>oh,</em> condoms, that’d be. Oof. Yeah. Bad.</p><p>Oh <em>no,</em> what would he even <em>do</em> if she got pregnant?</p><p>The Doctor pulls sharply on his hair, but her voice is soft when she says, “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. It’s not true.”</p><p>“I’m thinking about the potential horrors of you getting pregnant,” he says dryly.</p><p>“What? Why would you - <em>oh no,”</em> the Doctor gasps, and leans back to give him the same exact horrified look he was wearing earlier. “What would we <em>do?</em> I’m not - no. <em>Nope,</em> no, I’m not, <em>oh god,</em> how did <em>you</em> handle this?”</p><p>“Missy got a hysterectomy the second she found a safe place to get it done,” the Master says.</p><p>She gives him an odd look.</p><p>“What, do you think little half-Missy urchins running around - oh, but we could’ve called them <em>Miss-creants,</em> that’d be funny.” And thankfully the Doctor doesn’t comment on the unintended but very honest implication that if Missy had children, the Doctor would be the father.</p><p>With a groan, the Doctor backs away, slides out of his lap, and grimaces at the feeling. Honestly, Missy had <em>adored</em> that messy well-fucked feeling, but the Master can certainly see why others wouldn’t.</p><p>“If you put us in the vortex we’d have plenty of time for me to clean that up for you,” the Master offers. And since the Doctor doesn’t blush or react beyond a frown, he adds, “You know. With my mouth.”</p><p>The Doctor rolls her eyes, and glances towards the door before she walks over to her clothes and says, “I’ve had your rooster up my donkey, what, a few <em>thousand</em> times?” And she scowls a bit at the TARDIS for the lovely profanity corrections. At this point the Master’s more and more certain she’s deliberately trolling the Doctor.</p><p>“True, very true,” the Master agrees, watching her bend over to grab things. “And how many times have you had my tongue on your clit?”</p><p>“Zero, which is the number it’s going to stay at!” the Doctor says.</p><p>“Oh, you’re regenerating into a man again before the next time all your pets are gone?”</p><p>She doesn’t even look at him, just walks deeper into the TARDIS and shouts back, “Get cleaned up, we have things to do!”</p><p>Humming, the Master is more than happy to comply on this lovely, <em>lovely</em> day.</p><p>----</p><p>There’s an inherent danger to memories. As time goes on, it’s simply the nature of the mind to change things, adjust the truth to match a later comprehension - an added sneer at the end of a sentence, a soft smile when you aren’t looking, clues you should’ve noticed when they never existed in the first place. Some things are better left forgotten. Some things are better flawed.</p><p>The Master doesn’t look at most of Koschei’s memories. He deliberately keeps them sequestered, protected even from himself. Or perhaps from himself most of all.</p><p>One of those is Koschei and Theta’s very first date. Or what is roughly equated to a date - for Time Lords, dating is more hanging out with explicit romantic intentions being open for discussion for a specified period of time. A moment where recklessness was tolerated, and even agreed upon.</p><p>Koschei was barely 30 when he finally accepted that the path his father had set for him wasn’t going to happen. That’s a blistering mind-blowing speed for <em>anything</em> to happen on Gallifrey, let alone rejecting every lesson learned during childhood. But before 30, even with the drums, he still thought of himself as Future Lord Oakdown in his tiny stupid brain. He’s always been arrogant, still is, but he was <em>insufferable,</em> rebelling with Theta but always keeping a small tang of elitist <em>my father will hear about this</em> to any trouble he got in. And as Koschei realized how <em>wrong</em> he was, in the head, the more insecure he became, meaning the more he would ramble on about his grand future. He had estates. He had a title. He had a hereditary claim to candidacy for the Council.</p><p>Sometimes it’s infuriating - especially now, knowing about the Frayed - to remember how many things in his life started with the Doctor.</p><p>He was 8 when they met and declared themselves inseparable best friends forever two weeks later, to the dismay of (almost) every single person in the Citadel.</p><p>He was 15 when he figured out he didn’t just want to be <em>friends</em> with Theta. It was and to this day remains one of the most terrifying moments of his entire life, looking at his perfect beautiful <em>wonderful</em> best friend and realizing he wanted more, and then realizing he couldn’t think of a single time when Theta had so much as hinted he wanted that too. Horror, <em>agony,</em> fury, resignation, and want want want want <em>want</em> bled out of him every time he saw Theta. But he would keep what he had, and pining was <em>beneath</em> the Future Lord Oakdown, of course.</p><p>He was 18 when Theta mentioned offhandedly that someone had hinted at requesting a couple hours for open discussion of romantic intentions <em>(scandalously</em> forward, if no couriers were used), and Koschei had mangled the tablet in his hands beneath the table they sat at and asked his very very very very very pretty best friend was interested in that offer. And Theta blushed, and said, “I’d want to talk to someone else.”</p><p>He was 19 when Theta asked <em>him,</em> actually asked Koschei, explicitly, no courier, face redder than the grass beneath them, if he’d be open to romantic discussion.</p><p>Koschei’s answer had been to flat out say, “I love you.”</p><p>“Oh! That’s marvelous,” Theta said, with a pretty pretty smile, being very pretty. Silence descended upon the field they’d chosen for a very platonic picnic, and then Theta voiced the same damn question Koschei was wrestling with. “...What do we do now?”</p><p>“Can I play with your hair?” Koschei blurted out. Because he just wanted to touch. He wanted to touch touch <em>touch</em> and Theta’s pretty smile was so fond and wistful. “You don’t have to, I know how much work you put into-”</p><p>“I just want you to look at me, your eyes are pretty and you do it in a way nobody else does,” Theta said. Stricken, he added, “But how to do both of those things, logistically?”</p><p>Their brilliant teenager solution was Theta in Koschei’s lap, his fingers sliding through Theta’s hair while Koschei continued his unnoticed trend of eyefucking Theta into oblivion, and it took about 10 seconds of lap contact for them to figure out something else to do. A clumsy frottage session later, Theta remembered he had somewhere to be, and it was true, even Koschei knew the appointment existed even if not when, and Theta ran off with a dazzlingly happy smile, and then Koschei had one of the biggest meltdowns of his first life.</p><p>Theta hated him, Theta was mocking him, Theta was having second thoughts, Theta didn’t love him and never would and it was all a mistake, Theta was part of a conspiracy hired by his father to <em>test</em> Koschei, Theta asked as a joke and now he cared too much about poor Koschei to take it back, Theta was going to get murdered for some reason and the reason was going to be Koschei somehow, et cetera.</p><p>It took him two days to calm down enough to even stand in the same room as Theta. Two weeks to be able to talk to him without screaming in his face or randomly bursting into tears. Two <em>months</em> to gather enough sanity and courage to tell Theta, “I meant it. I’m not sorry, and I don’t regret it.”</p><p>“The only thing I regret is leaving you like that,” Theta said, and kissed him. Koschei kept his eyes open and dug his fingers into Theta’s hair and <em>this time,</em> they were in Koschei’s rooms, and Theta curled up against him and stayed there, touching him. It was awkward but sincere when Theta said, “I think you’re really great, Koschei. You’re smart and pretty and funny, and being around you makes me so happy.”</p><p>And Koschei didn’t panic again. Not as much, at least. Koschei also didn’t realize Theta’s cuddling elicited the equivalent of touch-telepath purring, either, and the chance for any damage control was long gone by the time he figured it out.</p><p>The Doctor has done it ever since, unless there’s a point to prove.</p><p>He tells himself she does it with everyone, because feeling <em>special</em> is a kind of hope, and hope is nothing but a big bright target held in front of his chest.</p><p>----</p><p>When the Master trots back into the console room, in yet another TARDIS-provided copy of his clothing (and Missy’s heels again - honestly, he might keep them), the Doctor is nowhere to be seen. But the TARDIS quickly tells him the Doctor is already outside, and also in a <em>strange</em> mood, with a strong twitch of concern.</p><p>“Ugh, if it’s some sort of <em>virginity angst</em> I’m going to lose my head,” he mutters.</p><p>The Doctor’s TARDIS doesn’t even try to understand what that means. Instead, it yet again brightens the crystal of a single pillar which, right, <em>right,</em> he started a Jack-murdering marathon before actually getting anything done past getting indignant on her behalf thanks to the Doctor doing repairs with the equivalent of old spaghetti and unicorn band-aids. He sends a quick understanding/agreement thought towards the TARDIS, and she makes a <em>bwee</em> noise of acknowledgement before there’s the clear sound of the door’s lock clicking open.</p><p>Aw, how sweet, she locked the door for them. Him. Whatever.</p><p>He considers making an entrance, but he also has no idea what’s on the other side of the door, so the Master simply opens the door and walks out.</p><p>They’re in an office, and it’s certainly an <em>interesting</em> tableau, a middle-aged man tied to an office chair behind a desk covered in the remnants of a fast food meal for four. There’s a small table in the corner, where the humans are sitting and giving the Doctor disapproving looks of varying types and intensities while the Doctor, standing rigid and clearly apart from the table, is mid-speech, saying, “Stand here and <em>justify</em> something I - <em>oh.</em> Hi. Hello.”</p><p>“Are we at the kink-shaming already?” he asks, amused.</p><p>“That’s the most offensive thing anyone’s accused me of in decades,” Jack says, and stands up, walking towards the Master. It’s curious, how the Doctor looks both furious and hurt.</p><p>Not good. He does not like that look.</p><p>“Well obviously <em>some</em> sort of shaming is happening,” the Master bites out, and glares at the Doctor’s pets. “As if you have <em>any</em> sort of right to -<em> fudge,</em> don’t <em>do</em> that!” He snaps at Jack, who is wrong wrong wrong and poked the Master in the chest. It makes him flinch back with a full body shudder of pure raw <em>revulsion.</em></p><p>“Why are you so much more sensitive than the Doctor?” Jack asks.</p><p>“She has the psychic awareness of an unpolished bowling ball,” he says, and ignores the Doctor’s objecting, <em>Oi!</em> because Jack raises his eyebrows, <em>and </em>his finger. The Master takes a step back again, just in case. “Use your <em>words,</em> freak, what are your demands.”</p><p>“We’re not done talking about you behind your back,” he says, and the Master rolls his eyes because <em>wow, what a shock.</em> “So either wait in the TARDIS, or go look at the factory.”</p><p>“Factory?”</p><p>Jack nods, and walks away <em>thank fuck</em> so he can push a button, and the back wall of the office turns from solid beige to clear glass with an army of Daleks behind it.</p><p><em>“It’s fine!”</em> the Doctor shouts, because the Master’s immediate primal <em>shriek</em> of psychic panic was probably loud enough for her to catch. And apparently sex has turned her into a touchy-feely protective weirdo because she rushes to stand in front of him, hands quickly pressing against his temples as she, <em>ah,</em> okay. Telepathy is <em>much</em> faster for explanations.</p><p>He lets out a shaky breath, and nods.</p><p>Meanwhile, the Doctor glares at Jack. “Maybe give a Time War survivor some warning before shoving an army of Daleks in front of them?”</p><p>The Master, on the other hand, directs his attention towards Robertson.</p><p>“No,” the Doctor warns. She probably doesn’t even need the surface-level telepathy to know what he’s thinking.</p><p>The Master pouts. “I’d take him out of earshot?”</p><p><em>“No,”</em> she repeats, and pulls a hand away from him to gesture out the now-clear wall. “You’ve got all of that to destroy. Go have fun.”</p><p>He remembers that very first lie, when he came trotting into the console room earlier. <em>Not an apology, or a reward,</em> she said about giving him an entire fucking Dalek army to destroy.</p><p>And he <em>is</em> still angry. Sort of. He’s angry and hurt in an intellectual sort of way, an academically-flavored indignation. It’s hard to hold on to anger when things feel so bright and easy, and the Doctor is so pretty, giving him things, paying attention to him - he has simple needs. Yes, the Doctor is cruel and selfish and ruthless, but that’s just who the Doctor is.</p><p>Whatever it is, apology or reward or some misguided attempt at a bribe, doesn’t matter. She still did it.</p><p>Every telepathic link goes two ways, and what is a giving of thoughts on one side is a taking of memories on the other - so he takes. The Master pulls thoughts to the forefront of her mind at a brutal pace, every single one of them called out by the single spoken question, “And what kind of thank you do you want?”</p><p>Most of them are sex, ranging everywhere from a sweet little call-back picnic blanket encounter to one fascinatingly appalling fantasy of him <em>fatally stabbing her</em> mid-fuck, what is <em>wrong</em> with this Doctor, it’s amazing. But the average sexual fantasy comes down to rough sex either against a wall or in the shower (also against a wall), which he blames on recently showering.</p><p>More peculiar are the non-sex ones, which range everywhere from tossing candy at each other while challenging each other to make the worst possible move in chess (an old game they haven’t played in a <em>long </em>while), to one <em>he</em> quite likes where yes the Master rigs the place with lots of explosives but kisses the Doctor’s palm before he puts the trigger in her hand, to one she <em>actively</em> tries to hide.</p><p>The Master chases it down, obviously, and he can beat her easy enough - really wasn’t joking, with the bowling ball comment - to reach...this. Almost. And there’s a <em>heaviness,</em> a grim sort of resignation to her mind as the fantasy plays out.</p><p>Fantasy-Doctor glares at Fantasy-Jack, and just like reality, says, “Maybe give a Time War survivor some warning before shoving an army of Daleks in front of them?”</p><p>But Fantasy-Master rolls his eyes and says, “I’m <em>fine,</em> just a bit surprised.” And because it’s not real, Fantasy-Master presses a soft reassuring little kiss to Fantasy-Doctor’s lips. It’s short, with the sort of familiarity that speaks of doing this often. “What are we doing with them?”</p><p>“I thought you’d want to blow them up or something,” Fantasy-Doctor says.</p><p>Fantasy-Master shrugs, and says, “I wouldn’t say no, but I don’t <em>need</em> to do it, either.”</p><p>And this is what the Doctor wants most - a version of him who is, what, playing hard to get instead of openly enjoying destruction? What even <em>is</em> this, other than stupid?</p><p>He pulls out of the Doctor’s head, taking a moment to enjoy the good kind of shudder going through her body. It all took just a few seconds, meaning the humans only see the Master ask what she wants in return, and the Doctor eventually gives a reply of shaky breath and grabs the lapel of his coat to steady herself before saying, “Don’t thank me. I just need them destroyed and know you’d be good at it.”</p><p>That certainly drains a good bit of the fun out of things. Even if she’s lying. “If you’d like,” he says, because the Doctor was expecting a fight. The Master grins at her. “Or do we need a minute in the vortex?”</p><p>“We do <em>not,”</em> the Doctor says, firm in the way that means she’d snap like a twig if he put a little bit of pressure on the subject. And she manages less than a heartbeat of direct eye contact before dropping her hands and stepping away - oh, and dropping onto her knees, which is exciting for all of eight jittery gleeful heartbeats until she pulls the damned anklet out and unceremoniously clamps it onto him. “It’ll take a few minutes - no, sorry, for a Time Lord it’s-”</p><p>“Estimate of five days, Doctor,” he says instead of sitting through clumsy calculations. She’s incredulous, until the Master raises his eyebrows at her. “It’s my <em>timeline,</em> connecting to <em>your</em> timeline until it ends. And considering that time started a couple billion years ago, and keeps going <em>forever-”</em></p><p>“Ah, right, of course,” the Doctor says, and gets back to her feet, practically bouncing back away from him. “Well! Master. Feel free to take a tour of the factory, check weaknesses and so on, we’ll be done soon.”</p><p>“I’ll keep it to two or three traps, then,” he says, winks at her, and sweeps through the newly-glass door on the other side of the room. He heads into the Dalek factory, accompanied by the dulcet tones of her pets being told yes, he really meant that. And if it’s only two or three traps, well, his good mood is as obvious as the sun in Earth’s sky.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Priority Complex</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Master <em>is</em> looking forward to blowing up a Dalek factory. Looking forward to some mayhem in general, really. Things have been slow recently, in that department. But when the Doctor and her entourage turn the wall opaque again, he realizes he can still hear them. And that is a temptation he’s not even going to bother feeling <em>tempted</em> on - of course he’s going to listen.</p><p>His expectation is the amusing and <em>very fair</em> commentary of ‘why are you stupid enough to sleep with him.’ Nobody in their goody-goody gang would think it’s smart. Mostly because it really isn’t. He’s terrible.</p><p>Instead, it turns out his little scheme worked far, <em>far</em> too well because things are muffled, and then it’s Yaz, of all people, he hears increase in volume and finally actually makes out, “think something <em>two millennia old</em> counts as consent?!”</p><p>Oh, there’s something very dark and angry in the Doctor’s response. A Graham mumble. A Jack mumble. A Doctor mumble mumble, until she <em>shouts,</em> “because it’s <em>different!</em> Don’t try to apply <em>human standards</em> to something you can’t <em>possibly</em> understand-”</p><p>“Enough!” Jack shouts.</p><p>Bad idea. Bad bad idea. You can cut the Doctor off to argue more, but just telling her to <em>stop?</em> Depending on the Doctor, that could get you punched in the face. Or it’d get the Master punched in the face, at least. But there’s no scuffle, no snarl (which is a <em>big</em> surprise from this gloriously beautifully feral version), so something else must be happening too. Or she’s panicking? But this doesn’t seem like something to panic about. Still, it gets the Master intrigued enough to put his ear almost against the glass.</p><p>He hears Jack say, pain-free, “A long time ago, you said you were trying to save him, not just stop him. And I thought that was the goal this time too, but it’s like you’re <em>enabling</em> him. Look, before the Master killed me, he said he <em>didn’t want to,</em> and he...trust me, he meant it. So how can you be sure <em>this</em> was-”</p><p><em>“Never</em> question that,” the Doctor snarls, which is good, because now the Master doesn’t have to break down the door and kill Jack again. “Don’t you dare. This isn’t some sort of human relationship, with your one little life clinging to another for less than a century, and that’s what you <em>can’t </em>understand. None of you can.” There’s a single harsh laugh. “And if you dare to bring it up with the Master, you deserve whatever you get.”</p><p>And that’s satisfying, but it also makes him want to scream <em>then why didn’t you say it back?</em> Or maybe that’s the point. She likes <em>his</em> devotion, not her own. After all, the thing she’s calling out is, what, consent? Which really is laughable. Even when the Master is actively trying to murder the Doctor, gun to the head - oh, he still needs to get that back. Wouldn’t be a surprise if she threw it into deep space or something, though. What a shame. He liked having an ironically Earth-originating weapon.</p><p>The conversation rambles on, with Jack and the fam criticizing the Doctor for <em>mistreating</em> him, which means he really <em>did</em> do his little manipulation trick a bit too well. Be nice and lovelorn at some humans and they forget all about blowing up a plane and a year of torture an multiple attempts at genocide, apparently. Yes, this was the point, but this isn’t fun. And Jack isn’t even saving her. That’s practically his <em>job</em> and he’s not doing it.</p><p>But wasn’t this the point? The point was to <em>win,</em> which he’s clearly doing, and maybe she’d even get rid of them now. But she’s...</p><p>The Doctor isn’t talking anymore.</p><p>And they were having <em>such</em> a good day.</p><p>All the humans are still rambling on, so the Master stands up and heads to the nearest Dalek, easily pulling the weapon off of it and wondering why this is his choice. He’s <em>won.</em> He’s not even just starting to win, he <em>won,</em> competition over. If the Master points sad pretty eyes at her pets and says <em>help me,</em> they’d do it.</p><p>And yet.</p><p><em>And yet,</em> here he is, gripping the not-quite-gun in one hand and opening the office door with the other, stepping in to hear Yaz saying, “Not exactly <em>experts.”</em></p><p>The Doctor’s back is to him, which is the only reason the Master has time to aim the Dalek weapon at Robertson, still trapped in his chair, bound and gagged in none of the fun ways. Jack immediately tries to get in front of Robertson, the fam mostly just shouts, and the Doctor twists just enough to see exactly what’s happening when the Master fires.</p><p>He doesn’t shoot Jack because everyone knows Jack would just bounce back so it’d look petty, doesn’t shoot any of the bland-brand humans because he doesn’t want to deal with the <em>many</em> types of pain that would bring, and he doesn’t shoot the Doctor because then he loses <em>his</em> Doctor. Meanwhile, nobody actually gives a shit about Robertson, he’s responsible for the army of Dalek shells, and it seems like an impulsive but understandable bit of bloodshed.</p><p>Also he does actually want to kill the man, which is a plus.</p><p>When he fires, it’s not the usual noise, the usual unsettling absence of recoil, the usual <em>anything.</em> Everyone is shouting and yelling and being very dramatic, and the Master’s fun murder plan is foiled by the fact the weapon itself shoots <em>water.</em> It’s a brutal amount of water pressure, and Robertson jerks like he’s been shot from the impact, but it’s very non-lethal and therefore <em>completely</em> useless.</p><p>Well, the way Jack gets a tiny splash of water on his shirt is funny at least. He’s a good sixty milliseconds too late to be useful.</p><p>By now, the Doctor has her wits about her enough to rush the Master and shove him against the glass wall, knocking the glorified water gun out of his hand with wide frantic eyes. “What are you <em>doing?”</em> she asks, and there’s honest panic for some reason. There’s also an urgent telepathic prodding, too clumsy to actually get anywhere. It’s the pressure equivalent of a dog bopping a balloon with its nose. The mental image makes him chuckle, which is a terrible thing to do, apparently, since it’s almost <em>grief</em> on her face now. “Master?”</p><p>“Are they <em>all</em> just cute little water guns?” he asks, distaste clear.</p><p>Robertson, gagged and terrified, still makes an indignant noise loud enough the entire room can hear him.</p><p>“You came in here to kill him,” the Doctor says.</p><p>The Master waits for her to have a point, but when the Doctor just sits there looking <em>stricken</em> for no good reason, he prompts, “And...?”</p><p>For a moment, the Doctor bows her head, forehead almost touching his shoulder, and yes, that sounds nice. She should do that. He likes her hair. But then she releases him, and shakes her head. “We need to get the Matrix out of your head.”</p><p>“Oh yes, because <em>that’s</em> what makes me want to off the man responsible for creating a massive army of Daleks,” he says, and rolls his eyes at how <em>stupid</em> she’s being. “We know how this goes, Doctor. If he doesn’t die for <em>this,</em> next thing you know he’ll be trying to profit off his shiny new Cybermen. Except next time, thanks to <em>this-”</em> the Master motions towards the Doctor, the TARDIS, her pets, the factory full of unpiloted Daleks, “-he’ll be <em>better.</em> He’ll be harder to stop, and people will die.”</p><p>It’s a big office. That doesn’t keep it from feeling like uncomfortably close quarters, with her pets awkwardly frozen halfway between intervening and going back to their little conference table. Jack, on the other hand, grabs the back of Robertson’s chair and quickly starts rolling him out of the room and deeper into the building, away from the factory.</p><p>“People can change,” she says.</p><p>“Will you at least <em>try</em> to not make this about your own guilt for once?” the Master bites out, and her wide eyes jerk towards him in surprise. He points at Robertson’s disappearing form, ignoring Jack’s meaningful eyebrow-raising. “He deserves to die, <em>needs</em> to die, and I’m not going to wait around hoping <em>you</em> will do it. So yes, I popped in to do a quick bit of vermin extermination.”</p><p>He’s lying his ass off about all of this, of course, but everyone bought in <em>immediately,</em> so. Easy enough to make this his truth. Yes, he was out walking through the factory, seeing Robertson’s name over and over again, and this was his solution. Simple. Reasonable, compared to <em>you were making the Doctor upset and I want it to stop.</em></p><p>The Doctor takes a bracing breath, and moves aside. It also happens to put her between the door back into the factory. “We’ll talk about this later. Get back in the TARDIS.”</p><p>It is a very <em>very</em> close thing, keeping himself from snapping that she’s treating him like a child, how <em>mean</em> she’s being to him - and she <em>is,</em> just for the record - but he came here for a reason, albeit an increasingly pointless-seeming reason. So the Master keeps himself from calling her out on the insulting levels of disdain and ingratitude she’s showing.</p><p>He manages to do this mostly because before he can reply, the Doctor says, “Please.”</p><p>So now the Master can’t avoid the fact he truly has <em>no</em> idea what’s going on in her head, what’s happening with <em>any</em> of this. “What are you…” Hm. No. He looks her over, like it’ll give some sort of clue, and switches to Gallifreyan. She’s more likely to be honest that way. “What’s wrong with you?”</p><p>“We needed to prioritize this the moment it proved to be a problem,” the Doctor says, <em>not</em> in Gallifreyan. Meaning she’s looking for approval from the humans. She takes a deep breath. “I’ll ask Jack to stay here until we get back, drop my fam back in Sheffield, and we’ll take care of this.”</p><p>“Leaving you two alone together, again,” Ryan says, with a confrontational sort of air.</p><p>“I’m not taking you to Gallifrey,” the Doctor says.</p><p>Even though it was a clear ultimatum, not to mention a long-held <em>law</em> that even the Master and the Doctor have held to (...sort of), Ryan says, “We’ve already been there, seen what happened. We walked through the whole city. You can’t-”</p><p>“If we really <em>are</em> extracting the Matrix from my head, do you think your cute little human brain can deal with the potential telepathic backlash of a few millennia of dead Time Lords looking for a home?” the Master asks.</p><p>And <em>now</em> the Doctor swaps into Gallifreyan, snapping, “Stop trying to help.”</p><p>Bleeding Heart Graham, who still can’t seem to get past the part where he and the Doctor <em>look</em> younger than him, asks, “Can <em>you</em> deal with it?”</p><p>“This isn’t up for discussion,” the Doctor says, and points towards the TARDIS. “Everyone in.”</p><p>Ryan shakes his head, clearly <em>disappointed,</em> oh, that sure must sting the Doctor, but obediently heads inside, Graham not far behind.</p><p>Yaz lingers, though. Yaz takes a deep breath, and says, “I’ll stay with Jack and Robertson.”</p><p>“No, you won’t. Get in the TARDIS,” the Doctor orders, <em>wow.</em> Yaz looks just as surprised as the Master feels.</p><p>He’s doing exactly what she asked him to when he asks <em>Yaz,</em> because she might actually give him an answer. “What did you do to her?”</p><p>But she keeps her mouth shut. They both do. Yaz looks at the Doctor, looks <em>hurt,</em> and without another word she turns and walks into the TARDIS.</p><p>When the TARDIS door shuts behind Yaz, he doesn’t know if Yaz did it or the door closed itself.</p><p>“You go in too,” the Doctor says.</p><p>The Master shakes his head, and walks over to her, getting rid of the distance between them. The Doctor doesn’t back away. Even when he reaches forward, holding her chin lightly, just to make sure she looks at him. “What did they do?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>His grip <em>tightens</em> but no, <em>no,</em> he loosens his fingers, drops his hand, and stays so extremely calm when he says, “You’re a terrible liar this time.”</p><p>“Well I’m not going to tell you, so it’s bad lying or silence, got a preference?” The Doctor grabs his wrist and pulls his unresisting hand away, but she also doesn’t let go. Or turn away. After a long moment, she says, “Stop it.”</p><p>“It’s a bit <em>weird,</em> going from sex to demanding I stop <em>looking at you,”</em> the Master bites out, and wrenches his arm out of her grip, stepping away. “Give me a good reason to do this. Something other than <em>because I say so,</em> I mean.”</p><p>“Because if we take the Matrix out, you’d only have yourself to cope with,” the Doctor says. Which is a <em>weak</em> argument, hilariously weak, up until she adds, softly, “And I know who’s in there.”</p><p>If the Master is alone, he has a few very <em>common</em> visitors. And the Doctor has a point with that argument.</p><p>With a groan, he says, <em>“Fine,”</em> and walks into the TARDIS.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p>When the Master was young, when he was <em>Koschei,</em> so many pointless things mattered to him.</p><p>He cared about grades but had trouble because homework was so, <em>so</em> boring. Tests were <em>even worse,</em> just regurgitating the previous few years of lessons while <em>also</em> told to sit quietly, and answer questions how he was instructed, and do it alone. Koschei liked exactly none of those things.</p><p>Working his ass off to barely squeeze into 8th place for graduation has meant absolutely <em>nothing</em> for the past, oh, 90% of his life? All it does is give him bragging rights in comparison to Theta’s 22nd place. Which, in a class of 370 people, still wasn’t something to sneeze at, but the point remains. Koschei worked <em>hard,</em> agonized over it, broke plates over it, even had a few breakdowns over it (dropping to 11th place was...not pretty). He wasted so much time on something as pointless as grades. Learning was worthwhile, absolutely, but <em>grades?</em> Laughable. Worthless.</p><p><em>Dignity,</em> that’s the truly hilarious one. In some ways, he didn’t care about it. He didn’t need to be a good little boy, didn’t worry about the <em>scandal</em> of rebellion. Dignity and reputation are very different things. No, Koschei fretted about being perceived as <em>weak.</em> Vulnerable. Inferior. Koschei’s greatest fear was being the sort of person people laughed at for just existing.</p><p>If he hadn’t cared so much, he could’ve asked the Doctor to stay. He could’ve gone with him. They were both old men (a Time Lord’s first body ages like a regular person, albeit a long-lived one) and <em>why not,</em> why didn’t the Master chase him? He was already getting <em>sick</em> of the politics, but it was what he’d worked for over a few hundred years.</p><p>He’d decided to move past being Lord Oakdown only to find it shoved onto him anyway, along with his father’s confession dial, and <em>fine,</em> maybe he had daddy issues. Maybe the Doctor had lack-of-daddy issues. Maybe that combined with already-present parenting bullshit wasn’t exactly great for their relationship.</p><p>And then one day he read the usual provided reports and papers, and scowled because someone had given him a repeat of a few weeks ago. But it wasn’t. No, it was just the same exact information. The same as a few weeks before that, and before that, and before <em>that,</em> and the Master realized that the single interesting thing in his universe had run off with his granddaughter.</p><p>He was a bored old man sick of Gallifrey’s persistent inaction, sick of stuffy Time Lord rules and society in general. The Master had power. He had a title. He had <em>influence.</em> And he was bored out of his mind, coloring between the lines, and he <em>missed his husband-</em></p><p>There also may or may not have been a teeny tiny corruption scandal. And murder. Maybe.</p><p>(He was <em>bored.)</em></p><p>So he left.</p><p>The Master often wonders what would’ve happened if he stayed. If they would’ve sent him after the Doctor anyway, or maybe used him as bait. Wonders what would’ve happened if the man who was Koschei had dug too deep in the Matrix.</p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>Ahh, Sheffield.</p><p>He could go stand in front of the door, intimidate the humans, watch them <em>squirm,</em> but instead he looks down at the table where Missy’s teapot used to be. There’s a new teapot there, now, shaped like an elephant. The spout looks like the trunk, the handle is a comically exaggerated tail, and it is <em>adorable</em> and he cannot get enough of the cute goofy little thing and the next time the Master looks up, the door is swinging shut behind her pets, the Doctor flicking the lock closed.</p><p>“Still seems a bit hasty, running away from the factory like this,” the Master comments, and holds his cute new teapot against his chest. He can’t help the grin - he <em>was</em> angry. Upset, even. But he feels <em>great</em> again, and it’s not like getting angry or hurt is anything new with the Doctor around, is it?</p><p>“Priorities change. We’re going back to Gallifrey, to try and get the Matrix out of your head,” she says, <em>again,</em> instead of addressing the topic. No surprise there. Ah, well, he’ll let her. The Master is benevolent like that.</p><p>“How exactly are you going to do that, anyway?” he asks, unimpressed. He puts his little elephant teapot down and walks towards her. He walks very close. Stands even closer. All she does is look irritated. “You’re imagining some scenario where I can just put the Matrix back, pull it out of my head and deposit it somewhere else. That’s not how it works. See, the Matrix already <em>has</em> the Matrix in it - shocking, I know - so unless you want me to <em>overwrite</em> it? No.”</p><p>“Got any better ideas, then?”</p><p>The Master smiles, and brushes her hair behind her ear, curious. Her breath stutters for a moment. “I really do like the earring.” She looks <em>very</em> irked, and not in a fun way, so the Master steps away and starts meandering around the room again. “Not sure how I feel about being taller than you for once. What do you think? Should I lose the heels? Put you in platform boots? Shove you up against a pillar so it doesn’t matter?”</p><p>“That was an accident and you know it,” she says, but she’s blushing.</p><p>“I do,” he concedes, because everyone’s screwed up telepathically at one point or another. If the Doctor ignores...a past incident, he’ll ignore this one. Still, he stops wandering around the room, watching the Doctor, curious. “But I don’t understand this <em>thing</em> you’re doing. Going from sex to being a twitchy wreck. Again.”</p><p>“We’re talking about getting the Matrix out of your brain,” the Doctor says.</p><p>The Master <em>laughs,</em> and it’s far too fond. “I love how you just blurt out a lie and expect it to come true.” He leans against the TARDIS’s railing. “Really, though. You’ve never been so…” The Master waves a hand at her. “Hot and cold. <em>Skittish.</em> From what I’ve seen, at least.”</p><p>And she looks just as skittish now. Silent.</p><p>“I have an educated guess, since we seem to have opposite reactions to becoming women,” the Master says. He’s not rude about it, not gentle about it either. But ah, the memories of being Missy are so bittersweet. “Me, I loved it. I went <em>all in,</em> from skirts and corsets to the name itself. Full change, full identity, I was a Time Lady through and through. But <em>you,</em> you’re-”</p><p>“I’m fine with it. I’m<em> fine.</em> Sure, no, I’m not <em>all in,</em> but I feel more woman than man, so I’m sticking with it,” the Doctor says. She’s talking with her hands now, oh my. He knew it’d be a sensitive subject. “It’s just new! It’s new and different and I’m not used to feeling so...so...<em>short.”</em></p><p>He knows she doesn’t actually mean <em>short,</em> it’s just the word she could let herself say, but the Master still stretches out his back and says, dry, “Oh no, how will you survive?” And the Doctor is blushing <em>again</em> - why? Does it matter? Not really. The Master gestures down at his own feet. “It’s an easy fix. Want to try the heels out?”</p><p>“I like my boots,” she says. “And I like the body well enough! I like being <em>me,” </em>(liar) “but I’m…” She sighs, irritated. “It’s me, but it’s new. That’s all.”</p><p>The Master <em>did</em> have trouble when he became a she. She went from thinking women were sort of weak and icky to realizing she was <em>glorious.</em> Dealing with female-attracted humanoids, particularly human men, felt like talking to babies who wouldn’t stop looking at her chest until she buttoned herself in layer upon knife-sharp layer of fabric. More of a challenge that way. More fun. The dysphoria was brutal for a couple of years but it was so, <em>so </em>worth it to be Missy. It was beautiful. Now the Master’s gender feels less <em>male</em> and more of a hand-wiggle <em>sure, male works.</em> Being Missy was a bulldozer of gender, and it was beautiful.</p><p>And it’s gone.</p><p>But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Not entirely.</p><p>“There was going to be a tango competition,” the Master says, which seems to confuse the Doctor. That <em>is </em>a bit of a leap, isn’t it, so he backs up a smidge so the Doctor can follow along. “At the vore man’s party. Daniel Barton’s birthday soiree. I thought it’d be fun, both of us dressed up like James Bond, seeing if you can dance this time. Which one of us would end up leading? Or would we just end up shoving each other around?” He looks the Doctor up and down. <em>“Can</em> you dance?”</p><p>“If I feel like it,” she says, clearly on the defensive. “Which I <em>don’t,</em> so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop that.”</p><p>“Stop what? Trying to figure out if there’s a single coordinated bone in that body?” the Master asks, and kicks his heels off, enjoying the way they <em>thud</em> against the wall in a good one-two. “Gonna have to be more specific, love.”</p><p>“Stop looking like you want to eat me,” the Doctor snaps. And then realizes what she’s said in the very next breath, and goes a brilliant bright red.</p><p>The Master grins, <em>and,</em> as requested, looks away. He has <em>no</em> idea how she didn’t see that coming, he really doesn’t. Still, he is obeying when he walks around the room and stops near the door, looking at it. “I’m guessing for some reason you decided <em>it didn’t count</em>, and I’m willing to humor you, but you <em>did</em> lock the door. Very first thing.” And a door that locks on the inside is meant to keep people <em>out</em>, not in. He glances back at her with a grin. “Thought that’s a bit of a learned lesson.”</p><p>“I’m not interested,” the Doctor says.</p><p>The Master <em>laughs.</em> Far, far too fond. But oh, she’s adorable. Priceless. Such a <em>horrible</em> liar this time around. “Really? <em>Really?</em> What’s changed in the past <em>hour?”</em></p><p>It clearly doesn’t go over well, since the Doctor bites out, “I remembered you’re coming off an explosion of mindless murderous rage. I’m not interested. I’m not - that’s not something I want to touch.”</p><p>That could be <em>agony</em> to hear. If he didn’t have proof the Doctor’s lying. The Master can’t help but smirk when he says, “You certainly did back when you wore pinstripes.”</p><p>The blush vanishes into looking ready to hit the Master with a hammer. “Shut up.”</p><p>“Oof, touchy on <em>that, </em>aren’t you?”</p><p>“I was lonely,” the Doctor bites out. “I was lonely and tired and out of my <em>mind</em> with guilt, and you wouldn’t even connect with me. I was a dying man in a desert, and you were the only water left in the entire universe, and <em>that’s it!”</em> Her hand slams down on the console, ferocious in her blunt and absolute denial of what the Master believed for the past however long. 1000 years? Yes, something around there.</p><p>That was probably the only version of the Master capable of any extended period of playing hard to get, and it was because of the satisfaction from watching the Doctor <em>want him.</em> It was good. It was very good. And then he’d give the Doctor a taste of water, a tease of what could be if he gave up on the humans, and then the Master would send him back to his desert of grief.</p><p>But <em>this</em> version of the Master can just raise his eyebrows and look unimpressed instead of screaming at her. Because it <em>hurts,</em> yes, but when doesn’t it. “Then stop wasting my time and take me back to my TARDIS,” he says, with an incredible amount of calm.</p><p>“Not Robertson’s factory?”</p><p>“What happened to <em>no rush, we have time machines?”</em> the Master mocks. “I can deal with the Matrix. <em>You,</em> on the other hand? No. I’m done. Take me back to my TARDIS.”</p><p>The Doctor keeps her head down, hair obscuring her features. He can watch her breathing, even from this distance. “As much as I’d like to get rid of you, no.”</p><p>She’s scared. And lying.</p><p>Why?</p><p>What went wrong? Why has this gone from naked affection in his lap to <em>this?</em> Did he do something? Did the <em>humans</em> do something?</p><p>Why? <em>Why?</em></p><p>“Do I make you feel short?” the Master finds himself asking. It’s unintentional. The thought flashes, and the not-quite code word emerges before he can second-guess it.</p><p>Her laugh is blunt, harsh. “That’s the problem with us, I think. When we’re together, we’re both so…” The Doctor shakes her head. “Fragile? Vulnerable? <em>Raw?</em> I don’t know what to call it. There’s probably a word in some language out in the galaxy, just waiting to be used.”</p><p>Gallifreyan is not a language designed to talk about feelings. Not these types, at least.</p><p>The Master doesn’t try to approach, since she still hasn’t taken down the Master-restricting barrier around the console. He sighs, and settles for watching her and leaning against one of the pillars. She is exhausting. “We already have the right word, Doctor. It shouldn’t be difficult to find.”</p><p>When the Doctor does look up, she is pale, and just as exhausted, and it’s not the least bit fun. “Oh?” She stares him down like the Master is her executioner, just waiting to hear the word that would finally cut her down. “Say it, then.”</p><p>And <em>oh,</em> how he hates her.</p><p>He hates her. He hates the Doctor so much, <em>so much,</em> it’s big and painful and <em>always</em> too much. A word too big to switch out, but he’s had plenty of practice. Over and over and over again, <em>how many times,</em> how many <em>fucking</em> times has this happened already. How many times is this going to happen? <em>An eternity.</em> Forever, over and over.</p><p>And the thing he hates most is the barely visible watery glaze in her eyes.</p><p>The Master is a talented teller of lies, and the Doctor is very good at wanting to believe them.</p><p>He smiles. It’s the smile Missy’s Doctor would give her, but the Doctor will never recognize it. He speaks like he’s sharing a joke with an old friend, like there’s nothing else between them.</p><p>The Master says, “Short.”</p><p>He gets a relieved snort of laughter from the Doctor, and the Master blanks out for the most part. Their conversation becomes tunnel vision burst of lies and truths, letting the slowly calming Doctor stretch out in the space he carved out for her, and then the Master heads back into the TARDIS for his bedroom. And <em>his</em> shoes. Because he is not Missy.</p><p>During his stop, he takes advantage of the restocked beautiful breakable vases.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Doctor says they’re going to Gallifrey to put the Matrix back in the box, and the Master goes along with it. When she asks why he’s willing to do it, the Master doesn’t tell her the first reason, which is that his brain feels fuzzy and exhausted and he would like a break from arguing, just for a little bit. He tells her the second part honestly - he knows how she broke out of the stasis field. That means the Doctor’s mind is in the Gallifrey Matrix now, and he wants to check her memories to see if she’s ever actually loved him.</p><p>The rest of the trip is beautifully awkward and silent, until they get to Gallifrey.</p><p>He’s hoping for a flyover, maybe. Something to show how beautiful Gallifrey’s total destruction really is. But no, the Doctor lands them right in the Matrix chamber with his Cybermasters, frozen, empty sets of armor with the contents obliterated.</p><p>The Master sighs at the sight, wistful. “They were so pretty.”</p><p>“How much time did you put into the aesthetic appeal of your nightmare abomination of an army?” the Doctor asks. There’s a bite to it, but while it may be recent history, the room is still just that - history. Something both sacred and laughable to a Time Lord.</p><p>He shrugs, and crouches down to knock on the armor, hear the clang of empty metal. “Not much - I was <em>inspired,</em> so it went quick. Did you read the message I put on them?”</p><p>“I saw how often <em>the Master</em> was in it and didn’t bother,” she snipes, and the Master grins, unrepentant. “Alright, how should we do this? Do you want to just access the Matrix and get to it?”</p><p>He shakes his head, and heads towards one of the holes in the wall. “Thought you might want to do your own snooping before I start fussing around in there.”</p><p>“Oh no, no, you first. Please,” the Doctor says, cheery to the point of being suspicious. Reverse psychology? Thinks it’s a trap, or the Matrix might backfire? Suspects he’s got other plans for this little excursion? Doesn’t want to - ah.</p><p>The Master turns to shake a scolding finger at her. “Don’t try to get clever, Doctor. I’m not uploading myself, so if you’re after a secret, you have to get it the normal way.”</p><p>“You know, not <em>everything’s </em>about you.”</p><p>“Yes, that distinction goes to <em>you,</em> doesn’t it,” the Master says, and goes back to looking at his work. Her work. The work of that weird random human who showed up <em>just in time</em>. Oh yes, the universe certainly does revolve around <em>one</em> of them.</p><p>Gallifrey looks...remarkably unchanged, all things considered. Red rocks, broken buildings, stars shining overhead in constellations so different compared to what Koschei learned. There’s no smoke across the Citadel, no remnants of battle. There is no sound. He shuts his eyes, and <em>listens,</em> and all he hears is the wind and his heartbeats and the Doctor’s footsteps through the wreckage, heading towards him to look as well.</p><p>“You’ll never understand how blessedly beautiful silence is,” the Master whispers. He doesn’t want to break what he praises, soft words deafening in comparison to the planet without them.</p><p>But there’s nothing else, it’s just him, and the Doctor, and quiet, and there’s <em>nothing else,</em> and there are tears in his eyes now. No drums. No Time Lords. Nothing but them. The people who <em>hurt the Doctor,</em> hurt <em>them </em>are gone, and he - <em>they</em> - did that. Because the death particle, that was the Doctor’s doing. Even if she conned some human into doing it instead, that <em>was</em> the Doctor. Her piece of the puzzle, slotting everything into place.</p><p>“This is beautiful to you?” the Doctor asks next to him. <em>“This?”</em></p><p>And fine. They can go back to this conversation again. Even if it won’t go any differently.</p><p>“Do you remember those moments before your brain accepted who the Timeless Child is? How <em>angry</em> you were?” the Master asks. “What would you have done if the answer had been something along the lines of <em>the Child’s trapped in a secret lab?”</em></p><p>“I wouldn’t rest until I saved them,” the Doctor says.</p><p>There’s no way to explain his reaction was exactly the same, just executed differently. There’s no point in even trying to explain what he felt when he realized the Child was the Doctor. There’s no equivalent for her. There never will be. She knows about the Frayed now, and that, at least, seems to be enough of an explanation in her mind.</p><p>She will <em>never</em> understand what learning the Child was the Doctor, <em>his Doctor,</em> felt like.</p><p>She will never stop thinking this was wrong of him, that the Time Lords didn’t deserve it (even though they deserved <em>worse</em>). And the Doctor always wants to save people. <em>Won’t rest</em> until she saves people.</p><p>It leads to a very painful conclusion. Inevitably, the Doctor <em>will</em> try to bring back the Time Lords.</p><p>He’ll have to do something about that. But not right now.</p><p>The Master shakes his head, probably a bit too violently for her to ignore it, but that’s fine. He walks back over to the Matrix, and tries to focus. “This is your last chance to see a Time Lord that hasn’t been infected by my neural pathways for the past century or so,” he warns over his shoulder.</p><p>“Why didn’t you destroy the Matrix?” the Doctor asks.</p><p><em>Not telling,</em> is the immediate reaction of a response, but...well. Opportunity <em>knock knock knock knocks</em> so he keeps his cool, and then <em>does </em>tell her the truth. “The Timeless Child’s stolen memories might be recoverable. There’s no such thing as <em>impossible</em> when you have two geniuses with eternity to figure it out.” He turns to grin at the Doctor. “Not sure you want them, but the option should be there, eh?”</p><p>She just looks confused, now. “You want me to believe you kept it for <em>me?”</em></p><p>“I don’t care if you believe. But I certainly don’t need anything in it, I’ve already got a copy,” the Master says, and points at his own head. It’s been behaving, even. He boxed it up and other than the occasional murmur they’ve stayed quiet. </p><p>The Doctor looks up at the ceiling, at the Matrix, and frowns. “Then I’ll come with you,” she says, just like he expected.</p><p>“No no no, this isn’t-”</p><p>“I’m coming with you,” the Doctor says with her <em>authority</em> voice.</p><p>He rolls his eyes, and sits down on the platform right where her stupid random human savior dropped and died. There’s not even ash, and <em>oh,</em> wouldn’t that have been nice. Oh well. “Fine, but I have no idea how long this will take.”</p><p>“We’re immortal, and I doubt we’ll be interrupted,” the Doctor says, and sits directly in front of him. She doesn’t even glance down towards where there should be a body, instead holding her palms out towards him, expectant. “Come on, then.”</p><p>“We are not going to hold hands like we’re 40,” the Master says.</p><p>The Doctor borders on embarrassed when she says, “I’m out of practice, and I don’t want to lose track of you.” And she makes grabby hands at him.</p><p>“Like we’re <em>10,”</em> he corrects.</p><p>She smiles at him. “You know, it’s almost like you’re avoiding extended physical contact that would let me know if you run off without me,” the Doctor says.</p><p>Which is, in fact, his plan. There’s a Cyberium to find somewhere on this planet, after all, and it probably didn’t get very far.</p><p>“Hands, please,” the Doctor says.</p><p>She wants touching? Fine. She gets touching. He gives the Doctor one hand in hers, per request, but raises his other hand to bury his fingers in her hair, at the back of her skull, and pull her forward to press their foreheads together.</p><p>If she’s trying to be subtle about the way she flips between looking at his eyes and his lips, she’s failing. Very badly. <em>Atrociously,</em> to the point the Master starts grinning and she shuts her eyes tight. Like it’ll make him disappear.</p><p>“Right, you’re not interested <em>at all,”</em> he teases.</p><p>The Doctor’s cheeks go pink as her eyes squeeze shut even tighter. Then she pauses. Frowns. “Your mind feels...different.”</p><p>“Surprise, I’m crazy,” the Master says, dry.</p><p>The Doctor lets out a frustrated huff of air. “No, I <em>know</em> what your head feels like. This is...spiky. Shaky. Sort of like you were with the drums, but different, kind of <em>shuddering.”</em></p><p>“Moaning? Pressing against you?”</p><p>She scowls, and veers hard away from that topic. “Matrix. Now,” she says, and connects to the Matrix.</p><p>“You’re no fun at all,” the Master says.</p><p>It’s only when the Master dives in, bringing along the Doctor’s curious consciousness as it pokes around the equivalent of a reception area, that a slender trail of quicksilver slides out of the ceiling where the Matrix is housed. Glinting and gorgeous, it slides right towards one of the hollow Cybermasters.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Useless Crush of the Cyberium</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Alright, how do we do this?” the Doctor asks, bright eyes scanning across the nothingness around them. She’s still holding his hand. “I assume you have some sort of compression technique in your head, so are we reuploading that in the same format? Sort of? Maybe?”</p><p>~</p><p>The Master watches the Cyberium dance its way through the air as intently as possible while not moving. It’s so <em>pretty,</em> how it sparkles and shifts.</p><p>He also likes how it’s a cunning piece of shit, but that’s less appealing when he’s not quite sure if they’re on the same side.</p><p>~</p><p>“I can try it that way,” he says, and it’s easy enough to conjure up the imaginary box he’s kept the Matrix in. If the box looks a bit like the vault Missy was kept in, so be it. “But I wouldn’t open it just yet.”</p><p>There’s no clear signs of silver here in the Matrix, no blatant taint of the Cyberium. But it was in here. It was most certainly inside the Matrix, for however long it’s been since the death particle went off. A week? A year? What sort of damage could the Cyberium do in that amount of time? What about the Time Lord minds still inside?</p><p>“We need to visit someone,” the Master says, and knocks on the doors of his Matrix vault. “Someone in both versions of the Matrix. Pick a target.”</p><p>It takes the Doctor an unpleasant amount of time to speak, and then she says, “Before we came here, you said...well, you want to know if I really loved you.”</p><p>The Master shakes his head. He wants to know that, yes, but this - he needs to be <em>focused</em> and that’s not a topic that would keep him on track. Thankfully, there’s a very good excuse. “I don’t have a Doctor in my Matrix, and we need someone in both versions.”</p><p>“I know, which is - it’s been 2000 years, after all, right? I mean, that’s enough distance to make <em>anything</em> easy to cope with,” the Doctor says, obviously trying to convince herself more than him. “Just embarrassing memories from being young and stupid, right?”</p><p>More than a little hollow, the Master says, “Right.”</p><p>“Exactly! Like you said, truth and reconciliation,” the Doctor says, and falters for barely a heartbeat while she recalls exactly <em>why</em> the Master said that. “Right. So! Let’s find your dad.”</p><p>~</p><p>The Master didn’t do all that much research on the Cyberium before inviting it into his mind. Didn’t have all the facts. Didn’t feel he needed to, honestly. The core of all Cyber knowledge was good, yes, very good, but compared to the entire Matrix, the ancient angry minds of so many Time Lords, it was <em>nothing.</em> Just another nice knowledge feather in his very big hat of cleverness.</p><p>But he does know how it functions.</p><p>So when the Cyberium slides its way inside one of the Cybermasters, it shouldn’t be capable of...<em>anything,</em> really. It needs an organic interface. Someone to join with, share with. Someone to infect. And a dead hunk of metal that qualifies as a robotic frame at the absolute most shouldn’t be anything to worry about. It could...hm, operate the joints, maybe? The Cyberium could physically manipulate it, just like it could physically manipulate any other machine. If it can move, it can push.</p><p>The Cyberium <em>does</em> push. It slides inside the armor, and pushes one arm towards him and the Doctor, bleeding silver through every joint. It’s the arm with the gun in it.</p><p>This <em>might</em> be something to tell the Doctor about.</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>But it’d only give her one more chance to run.</p><p>~</p><p>“My father,” he says. “My <em>father?”</em> The Doctor nods before she starts wandering around the nothingness, not looking at him. In this context, it’s horrifying. Infuriating. He’s <em>shaking</em> with rage, and a bit of anxiety. “What <em>exactly </em>does my <em>father</em> have to do with anything?”</p><p>She still wanders rather than speaking, and there’s a reason for this, so with a frustrated noise, the Master pulls his <em>father</em> out of the Matrix. Both versions. And hates it. He <em>hates it</em>, because did his father know? Or did they weave the Frayed back into existence and say <em>tadaa, have a baby</em> and the man, on his last regeneration, just took him and never questioned anything. Being a single parent was already unusual, purely because of the lack of genetic variation, and he <em>never</em> questioned it? Never? <em>Never?</em> Or did he know the entire time? Or did he just assume that, as the great <em>Lord Oakdown,</em> he was always an exception?</p><p>Two versions of his father appear. One is as stoic and disdainful and <em>disappointed</em> as ever - there’s a reason the Master never once deliberately visited him in either version of the Matrix - while the other just looks tired. The tired one, the version who has been stored in the Master’s brain and tends to pop out and silently judge him, won’t look at him. The Gallifreyan Matrix version is visibly <em>irked</em> that he has to deal with his child.</p><p>The Master doesn’t blame him. After all, death is meant to be an escape, isn’t it? An ending? He shouldn’t have to deal with miserable useless offspring.</p><p>He wants to ask what his Father knew. He wants to <em>destroy him</em>. It’d be easy, a simple matter of finding the thread of his existence and ripping it apart.</p><p>Neither version says anything to him.</p><p>So, no change there.</p><p>“Alright, Doctor, feel free to share with the class,” the Master says, and <em>deliberately</em> keeps his eyes on his father(s). He’s over 2000 years old, probably closer to 2500 if he bothered to count, and he is an adult and <em>well</em> past having daddy issues. Obviously.</p><p>~</p><p>Bleeding silver, the Cyberium-Cybermaster (Cyberiumaster?) tries to make some sort of noise. It has no vocal cords and is a manifestation of <em>data,</em> not personality, so it’s a true act of desperation. Then again, if it’s been hanging around the Matrix for so long, maybe it absorbed a Time Lord or two.</p><p>The Master turns his head, listening to the garbled humming coming out of the modulated voice box. “Now’s not really the best time, if you want to chat,” he tells it.</p><p>The humming swings into a more solid punch of <em>noise,</em> like someone screaming just for the sake of sound. And then it changes again, into a crackling static noise.</p><p>Not just a noise. A consonant.</p><p>“You really <em>are</em> trying to say something,” the Master says, curious in spite of himself. It’s a good little distraction from what’s going on in his head at the least.</p><p>The static changes to the growl of what might be an R noise. Probably. Not exactly clear-cut.</p><p>“Start over,” the Master says, and ignores the laser entirely. “I’m listening now. Try again.”</p><p>With platinum leaking out of its neck, the creature goes back to the humming.</p><p>The sound of an M.</p><p>~</p><p>“Just remember we were young and stupid,” the Doctor says, and in a rush of <em>existence,</em> they stand in a Citadel residence. A very familiar set of rooms, a hastily cleaned not-quite-flat where young Theta was doing a terrible job of making tea for the imposing Lord Oakdown. Lord Oakdown stood in front of the grand windows overlooking Gallifrey. The clatter of three shaking teacups was audible, Theta’s stuttering hands uncertain as he put them down on the equivalent of a coffee table and then rushed back into the kitchen to get cream and sugar.</p><p>“Koschei should be home in an hour or so,” Theta said when he returned.</p><p>The Master has absolutely no memory of his father <em>ever</em> visiting their home. Ever. And they’re probably - it’s before they got married, very clearly. But when he glances at both versions of his father, they’re not confused, or rejecting anything about the memory. The Gallifreyan Matrix version sits in one of the kitchen chairs and looks at nothing, while the Master’s Matrix version stands near the entryway, exhausted and impassive.</p><p>“I’m here to speak with you, not my son,” Lord Oakdown said. He didn’t even look at the tea Theta worked so hard to make presentable. Ever the people-pleaser, Theta. “About his future.”</p><p>And no. No no no, he can see where this is going and no. <em>No.</em></p><p>“My son has ambition, dedication, passion, and no small amount of intelligence,” his father said, which is the most positive thing the Master’s <em>ever</em> heard come out of the man’s mouth. It was very, very calculated when Lord Oakdown turned his head and looked at Theta. “Despite your reputation, I know you’re not a fool, and I believe you do truly care for him. And since you’re not a fool, you know how very outclassed you are, and how little he cares about that fact.”</p><p>He twists to glare at the Doctor, ever the people-pleaser and ever the insecure orphan, which the Master has <em>never</em> thought was relevant in this context, or relevant <em>ever.</em> The Master hisses, “You are <em>not</em> turning our relationship into a Jane Austen novel.”</p><p>At least the Doctor looks appropriately miserable. “I’m not exactly proud of this.”</p><p>This <em>should</em> be where Theta punched Lord Oakdown in the nose and kicked him out. Or at least kicked him out. Or did <em>something</em> to object, even if it was just glaring, even if it was a little bit of a grumble. He’d take anything. <em>Anything.</em> He’d even take angry crying over the way Theta just looked down at his tea and didn't fight, didn’t object. Theta silently accepted it. Believed it.</p><p>Thank every star in the sky, Theta <em>did</em> say, “I’m not going to leave him.”</p><p>“I’m not asking you to,” Lord Oakdown said. “My son is crazy about you. Trying to separate you would be a waste of time.”</p><p>But then his father sat down, across from Theta. He took his cup of tea. It’s a subtly calculated sort of pensive silence he puts on, the way his father looked down into the liquid, and the Master can’t help but wonder if this is where his love of drama for the sake of manipulation came from. Watching his father do it to people like Theta.</p><p>With a delicate, almost apologetic sigh, his father said, “Your next regeneration is another matter.”</p><p>~</p><p>The Master is usually very, very good at this multitasking thing. The best. But it’s hard to focus on puzzling out the Cyberium’s pathetic attempt at communication when he’s also realizing how truly horrible his father really was. Is. He’s usually capable of being patient when needed. Patience is a virtue. He has that virtue, one of the very few he can claim.</p><p>So he cuts off the robot voice, and says, “Are you trying to say Matrix?”</p><p>The robot lets out a <em>nnnnn</em> noise, which he assumes is a no.</p><p>It’d be a waste of everyone’s time, but the Cyberium isn’t exactly bursting with social acumen, so he guesses, “Master?”</p><p>No.</p><p>Fine, focusing just on the noises. M-k-r. He guesses, “Maker?”</p><p>The Cyberium bursts out of the armor in a flurry of glinting shifting silver with enough force that the suit of armor sways and crashes to the ground, and the blob shoots over to directly next to the Master. And the Doctor, technically. It twists and expands and shrinks in a way that speaks of agitation much clearer than a very slow cyber-voice.</p><p>“You want me to make more Cybermen?” the Master guesses.</p><p>The way the Cyberium shoots up to the ceiling where the Matrix is housed is enough of an answer that he can guess this isn’t about just plain old Cybermen. It spent a lot of time in there, all alone.</p><p><em>All Cyber knowledge, all Time Lord knowledge,</em> he’d said.</p><p>“You want me to make...what, a Cyberium-Matrix?” the Master tries. “Make you part of the Matrix?”</p><p>Silver tears through the air to twist and stab around him. Then it launches into another Cybermaster, laser arm gooping through the seams for a moment before it gives up and comes back to circle him and the Doctor in a jagged spiral.</p><p>“That’s quite a temper tantrum, for a clump of data,” the Master says.</p><p>Which…</p><p>The Master stares at the Cyberium, which bursts into twirls, pulsing in front of him, like it’s <em>upset</em>, and says, “Oh.”</p><p>~</p><p>“There’s a reason I’m bringing this up with <em>you,</em> Theta,” Lord Oakdown said, and drank more tea. There was the most subtle of clatters when he put his cup down. “Surely you’ve seen my son is...troubled. My mother had it as well, and like her, my son at times makes choices that aren’t taking his future into account. So I ask you to be a voice of reason. His next regeneration might be different, maybe more stable.”</p><p><em>“Stop,”</em> the Master says, but there’s three - arguably four, since the Doctor’s here in person and also shoved her brain in the Matrix - people steamrolling the memory through. They won’t stop it. All four would need to stop it.</p><p>He could deal with the Jane Austen class difference bullshit. It’s infuriating and completely idiotic and out of fucking <em>nowhere,</em> as far as the Master’s concerned, but Theta had cared about it. And Koschei had been a pretentious rich brat who rambled on at length about political ambitions ever since he was a child, because that’s what he thought <em>power </em>meant, so he practically brought that on himself. So. Fine. It’s stupid but he can see where it comes from, so <em>fine.</em></p><p>But this? <em>This?</em> No.</p><p>“You know how different a new regeneration can be,” his father said, and there was a cruel thread of <em>hope,</em> an insidious tendril of doubt he can <em>feel</em> slink its way through Theta. “In so many ways. My mother’s final life was lived as a kind, methodical man who had very few similarities to the...mercurial woman who raised me. I can only hope that same change-”</p><p>The Master snarls at the version of his father that lives inside his own copy of the Matrix, and <em>squeezes,</em> and with a choked first syllable he shouldn’t <em>dare</em> to speak, the man is gone.</p><p>The memory stutters for a moment, after he kills his father. It shifts just the slightest bit, too. Lord Oakdown’s spine is more rigid, eyes colder, tone clearer in its manipulation. The perspective in the memory adjusts for a man far less aware of what he truly did in this moment.</p><p>“I can’t stop it,” the Doctor says, and she’s clearly been trying, but there’s still the Gallifreyan Matrix version of his father, who the Master unfortunately can’t will out of existence. The Doctor turns from the Master to the long-dead high and mighty Lord Oakdown. “Please, stop. Just stop.”</p><p>His father turns to her, looking older than the Master ever saw when he was alive, and says, “I tried.”</p><p>~</p><p>He pulls back from the Doctor, and there’s the slightest flicker of her eyes, but she doesn’t pursue, doesn’t call him on it. It’s hard to breathe, and he stands up, and the Cyberium follows his every move.</p><p>“I can’t make you into a person,” the Master tells it.</p><p>It spent too much time in the Matrix, watching people have lives. Even the rigid existence of the Time Lords is a shock to the Cyberium, watching births and deaths and regenerations. Watching hate, and love, and discovery.</p><p>And somehow, all that <em>Time Lord knowledge</em> helped the Cyberium build a concept of self, too.</p><p>It bursts into a jagged silver star, zips away from him to yet another suit of armor and then over to the Doctor - which won’t work, since for some reason the Cyberium needs a <em>willing</em> host - and then back to him.</p><p>The Cyberium floats there, and then compresses, and <em>stretches,</em> and turns itself into a long, thin thread.</p><p>“You want me to weave you into the Matrix?” the Master asks, because it’s <em>hilarious.</em> “You’d still be <em>this,</em> you know. Trapped that way for however long the Matrix lasts.”</p><p>It shifts, up and down, almost like a wave, before the Cyberium expands. There’s clear <em>effort</em> in the move - it’s not made to communicate like this. But it stretches, and twists together in some places but not in others, to make a patchy but clear grid pattern, like thread on a loom.</p><p>Then it swarms back up to the Matrix, and slides inside. It’s hard to see, but the Cyberium is making an <em>effort</em> for the Master to understand, so he can watch as the silver curls around one single golden thread in the Matrix. One single life. It’s almost a caress.</p><p>It wasn’t maker. It was <em>make her.</em></p><p>~</p><p>“You have centuries to make this choice,” Lord Oakdown said, and Theta was panicking, trapped in the memory and won’t stop panicking, because<em> Koschei’s father</em> managed to convince the idiot that a stable, rational Koschei wouldn’t love him anymore.</p><p>It’s always a bit strange, stepping into a memory. Changing a memory stored in the Matrix is impossible, but that’s not what he has to do. He steps in, and heads for the consciousness the Doctor blasted inside of the Matrix with zero finesse, zero <em>coherence,</em> just a literal explosion, like a sledgehammer against a stained glass window.</p><p>The Doctor - the real one - only <em>now</em> realizes, “It’s <em>me?”</em></p><p>“Yes, genius, it’s you,” the Master says, and does his best to ignore his father’s words (which is <em>hard)</em> as he shoves the well-intentioned teacups down the table so he can take their place, sitting directly in front of Theta. “Doctor. <em>Doctor</em>, stop the memory.”</p><p>But it’s likely the Doctor made such a mess of uploading her consciousness that this <em>is</em> the consciousness she shoved inside the Matrix. No distilled concept of self to speak with, only a long legacy of memories.</p><p>“If you really love him, you’d want what is best for him,” Lord Oakdown said, which is infuriating, but fine. Again, he’s different, meaning the Gallifreyan Matrix version really <em>is</em> telling the truth. Details about his outfit, his hair, the precision in his words vanish as it is all dragged down to the information from just one source.</p><p>Theta is looking through the Master’s torso, because interactable-Theta has yet to register his presence, still trapped in recalling reality.</p><p>“Why is <em>this</em> the one time you listen to an authority figure?” he asks, and snaps in front of Theta’s face. “Doctor. Theta. Come on, talk to me. Shake it off.”</p><p>But Theta instead reached for his teacup, which means leaning past the Master despite the fact the teacups were in a different location in reality. So Theta <em>is</em> adapting, and therefore capable of thought. And therefore stopping the memory.</p><p>“I think he’s getting worse,” Theta almost whispered.</p><p>How many variations of heartbreak can you feel? How is he still <em>surprised,</em> every single time. Two thousand years spent with the Doctor ripping him apart in so many ways should’ve taught him better by now.</p><p>It hurts so much because, for the vast majority of the Master’s life, he always thought Koschei passed for normal. The Master believed that, once upon a time, there was a version of himself that was almost a real person. Sometimes he even liked to think he passed for villainous-yet-normal up until the Time Lords resurrected him <em>because</em> they wanted a murderous psychopath, as if they deliberately made it worse.</p><p><em>Once upon a time, I wasn’t broken,</em> is the fairytale he’s been telling himself for 2000 years.</p><p>“No, no, we’re stopping this, you’re not saying this. Come on, Theta,” the Master says, and reaches forward, holds Theta’s face between his hands, even turns him to make eye contact. But he doesn’t, and oh no, there’s tears in Theta’s eyes. Oh no. No no no. “Don’t. Don’t do this to me.”</p><p>The whisper turns into a choked rasp of a voice when Theta says, “And I don’t know how to help him.”</p><p>“That’s not your job, Theta. I’m perfectly fine, Koschei’s practically <em>normal,</em> you’ve got nothing to worry about. And I’m <em>fine,</em>” he says.</p><p>The real Doctor says, “No, you’re not.”</p><p>“And it’s <em>still</em> not your job,” the Master snaps at her.</p><p>The Doctor gives him a tight smile. “That’s never stopped me before.”</p><p>Theta is one heavy breath away from crying, and the Master doesn’t know if he wants to pull Theta into a tight hug or shove him or just sit and watch or <em>what.</em> He’s so young. He’s so young, and life is so difficult, so <em>big</em> when you’re not even a century old.</p><p>But the Master is doomed to be part of a matched set, and his matched version of the Doctor is hovering near the kitchen table. Looking from Theta to the real Doctor is like looking at a roughly carved clay shape, and then seeing a version so beautifully intricate it hurts to focus on anything for too long.</p><p>He drops his hands away from Theta, and looks the Doctor in the eye. He forces himself through the question, even though he <em>knows</em> the answer. He’s probably always known the answer. “How long have you been trying to fix me?”</p><p>~</p><p>A very large part of the Master is tempted to grab some scissors and destroy whatever poor soul the Cyberium chose to fixate on. It’d probably save the Cyberium in the end. No matter what, it’s always a very bad idea to actually care about someone. But he could use the distraction, and he needs to ignore the way the Doctor is curling in on herself now that she’s alone on the platform.</p><p>It’s <em>right</em> that she be alone, after everything she’s done to him. His entire <em>existence</em> is her fault, he should’ve been good and dead millions of years ago but no, <em>no,</em> someone thought his existence would make the Doctor happy so here he <em>fucking</em> is and it’s how eternity is going to go. Forever. Forever and ever and ever.</p><p>And isn’t that exactly what the Cyberium is asking him to do?</p><p>“I know you’re not exactly <em>chatty,</em> so I won’t bother debating or explaining why I’m saying no,” the Master tells it.</p><p>The Cyberium’s lovely little cocoon of its preferred Time Lord swells, and then goes smooth, glinting like it’s making a point. Like it’s trying to make the thread stand out, make it beautiful.</p><p>The Master turns, and starts pacing around the room. He considers just leaving, walking through the Citadel’s halls until he finds another TARDIS. It wouldn’t take much work, the place is swarming with them. Particularly since the Master called everyone home first.</p><p>Silver slides out of the Matrix, as if it’s actively rebelling against the Master’s refusal to engage.</p><p>“I’m not going to bring someone back to life just to please you,” the Master says, and means it. He kept the looms intact as an act of anxiety, in case the Doctor was too much of a coward to kill them and the Master was stuck in an undead hell that could only be escaped by the Frayed getting rewoven, yet again. So it <em>is</em> possible.</p><p>That doesn’t mean he’s about to use it.</p><p>He won’t force someone else into an existence just as superfluous as his own, living as a <em>present </em>for an entity so much more <em>special</em> than you could ever hope to be.</p><p>~</p><p>There are a few solid <em>facts</em> about the Doctor. Core aspects, things the Master can always trust to be true in any regeneration. One of the most reliable traits is that Theta, the Doctor, chose his title for a reason - he wanted to help people, to make them better, wanted to <em>fix things.</em> Fix people. Theta was so determined, so <em>dedicated </em>to the concept, that he named himself for it.</p><p>The Doctor has always known what the Master is. Ever since they met, the Doctor knew something <em>wasn’t quite right</em> with him. Koschei was always a little <em>off,</em> too reactionary, too changeable, too passionate for the standard Time Lord. He felt too much. And Theta also felt too much. Too much empathy, in his case. A lesson would go over galactic wars or universe-wide genocide campaigns and Theta would be so <em>upset.</em> Theta would be so much better than them all, pointing out how <em>wrong</em> that is. How they should do something about it, shouldn’t they?</p><p>Always so special. So different. So <em>interesting,</em> and Koschei was the only other person who spoke up against the dusty ancient Time Lords, and he was loud about it. He was wrong, thought <em>wrong,</em> and didn’t care. His opinions were wrong but fierce, and the Doctor has <em>always</em> wanted to help people.</p><p>It makes perfect sense. A type of reasonable that the Master has been a complete <em>fool</em> to ignore for this long. But it’s the same problem. He feels too much. He cares too much. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to accept what the Matrix showed him about himself. The fact it’s the Doctor showing him the truth makes it...well, not <em>easy,</em> he feels like she’s grabbed a chainsaw and is ripping straight into his hearts, but it’s straightforward. It’s reasonable. And it shouldn’t be a surprise.</p><p>The Master is nothing but a project. The Doctor’s oldest, most difficult project.</p><p>“Don’t put it like that,” the Doctor says. Like she’s dealing with a child. “I’ve always wanted to help you.” There’s a pause, and he can’t look at her. He can’t. “I have <em>always</em> cared. Even when I shouldn’t. Even when I try not to, when I hate myself for it, when I <em>know</em> it’s stupid and naive and won’t do anything but hurt, I still...<em>care.”</em></p><p>About fixing him. A pet project.</p><p>Is he just the first of the Doctor’s pets?</p><p><em>It’s a bit like a dog, really,</em> one of the loom-weavers had said.</p><p>“Master?” the Doctor says. Nervous.</p><p>It’s never even been subtle. But just like the Frayed, the Master’s fought against the truth. For thousands of years, because the Master never even <em>once</em> mattered as anything other than a curiosity.</p><p>The memory stopped, at some point.</p><p>“Personally, I see this as the perfect time for a dramatic exit,” Missy comments behind him. And oh how he misses her, how he hates not being her. Being <em>this</em> instead.</p><p>“You don’t have to say anything,” the Doctor says quietly, so <em>skittish,</em> this one, isn’t she? Went from Scottish to skittish, a babbling brook of incomprehensibly vague bullshit. “I know it’s complicated. And this isn’t exactly ideal, is it? But, well. Here we are, eh? If I was going to do this, it certainly wouldn’t be like this. As we are. Except I am, I suppose. I could - if I swap to a different memory, would that-”</p><p>“Doctor.”</p><p>Her mouth shuts so fast it makes a subtle little <em>pop </em>noise.</p><p>The Master clenches his hands together, so she can’t see them shaking. “We’re going to leave the Matrix, and leave Gallifrey, and you are going to take me back to my TARDIS.”</p><p>“Did you miss the <em>dramatic</em> part?” Missy mutters behind him.</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>Definitely not.</p><p>
  <em>(Good to know about that ahead of time.)</em>
</p><p>And the Doctor says, voice tight, “If that’s what you’d like. But let’s take care of the Matrix in your head.”</p><p>~</p><p>The Cyberium is still leaking its way through the air, pulsing in frustration. The Master takes a shaky breath, going back to sitting in front of the Doctor. “I’d suggest hiding again,” he tells it.</p><p>“No no no, we should keep it,” Missy says. “Tell it to turn into a wee bitty pebble, something conveniently pocket-sized.”</p><p>“It wouldn’t want to,” the Master says, and watches the Cyberium prove his point, rushing back into the Matrix’s weave at his warning.</p><p>Missy makes a frustrated noise. “Wouldn’t <em>want to?</em> Since when does that matter?”</p><p>“It requires a willing host, and the Cyberium has to be <em>willing</em> to be hosted,” the Master says. He looks towards where her voice is coming from - just a bit behind his left ear, just far enough to be out of sight - and it’s only, oh, 50% surprising she’s not there. So. Good to know about that ahead of time. “Are you going to help me or make things miserable?”</p><p>“Why not both?” Missy answers.</p><p>He takes the Doctor’s hand again, and shuts his eyes. He <em>actually</em> needs to focus-</p><p>~</p><p>“Then I’ll <em>take care</em> of the Matrix,” the Master bites out, and the memory and his father fade away, and he sends the Doctor to Somewhere Else in the Matrix, a blank space she’s free to fill or exit at her leisure, because he <em>actually</em> needs to focus -</p><p> </p><p>There are a lot of voices in the Matrix. Tens of thousands, maybe even a hundred thousand, and all of them <em>know.</em> They know the truth. He made sure of it. If the Matrix was going to torture him with the truth, he would torture the Matrix right back, and when the Master opens the box he smashed the Matrix inside of, he’s ~ oh, he’s already physically shaking, that’s not good ~ struck by the <em>screams.</em> The rage. The agony inside of them, the fear. All of it just from a little bit of time dealing with the Master’s brain.</p><p>He wills the understanding of the situation to them: <em>I’m getting you out of my head one way or another. Either you fill the Matrix back up, or you’re snuffed out. Your choice.</em> And there are questions, confusion, of course there are, and thousands of voices shout them at him and it’s <em>deafening </em>~ and the Doctor’s hand clasps his own, too tight, but it’s a single point of physical contact, stability, and his throat hurts but the Master says, “If you go in my head, I’m tossing you off this tower,” and she puts her other hand around his, wraps around ~ but the Master has priorities here, and the Matrix isn’t that priority. Ever. Ever ever ever.</p><p>It’s explained that <em>their </em>survival means the death of a Gallifreyan Matrix version of their consciousness. The Master spent enough time obsessively trying to understand the Frayed and what stays the same, what changes, how things work when a Time Lord becomes nothing but a thread of their former self. It’s the only reason he can do this. Well, that and he’s <em>just that good</em> but it’s not like <em>that</em> matters</p><p><em>“Focus,”</em> Missy hisses at him.</p><p><em>Step forward, or die,</em> the Master tells them. And...silence. Maybe it needed to be clearer. <em>If you want your consciousness-</em></p><p><em>‘They already understand,’</em> says the only person to emerge from the Matrix. She still has the hat. What a choice to make. <em>‘And we…’</em> Romana shakes her head. <em>‘We’ll fade into dust, along with the rest of Gallifrey.’</em></p><p>It sounds noble, if you’re an idiot. But it’s a coward’s way out, because unlike <em>his</em> Matrix, the Gallifreyan Matrix is oblivious. It would continue on forever, not knowing how complete the planet’s destruction is and how well-deserved it is. Willful ignorance, in this situation. And it <em>does</em> have to be none of them transfering in that case, doesn’t it?</p><p><em>Well.</em> He’s not going to say no. He killed the <em>living</em> Time Lords, might as well take out all the dead ones too.</p><p>“Get in the TARDIS and shut the door,” the Master tells the Doctor, and pulls his hand away. She is protesting, he can tell, but he shouts, <em>“Go!”</em> He feels hands on him, briefly, but after he <em>shoves</em> towards her, he feels fabric brushing across the ends of his hair. It’s her coat, swaying with the movement as the Doctor rises, and soon, he hears the tell-tale creak of a wooden door.</p><p>Romana (they were never friends) fades back into his Matrix with a weirdly respectful nod, and the Master realizes the Matrix is too big. Even if he compresses it again, it’s too big. It’s not like his father, where he could just <em>squeeze.</em> It’s the difference between squeezing a lemon, and squeezing twelve overflowing commercial shipping containers of lemons.</p><p>He was imagining that it would just be...stomping on a box, mentally. One very loud <em>squish,</em> loud enough that it might blow up people’s brains, but as the Master measures out the vastness of this little project, it doesn’t seem very smart. Because the brain that will blow up is his. And he really doesn’t want to exist as a semi-sentient mess on the floor for however long it takes until the Doctor deigns to assist in some way.</p><p>This could be...difficult.</p><p>Missy sighs into his ear. “And why are we even doing this in the first place?”</p><p>Why <em>are</em> they doing this?</p><p>The answer, he realizes, is <em>because the Doctor told me to.</em></p><p>“And why are we listening to the Doctor? After what we learned, after everything she’s done to you, is that someone who deserves obedience?” Missy asks.</p><p>He misses Missy so, <em>so</em> much. Everything about her.</p><p>Benefits to keeping the Matrix: immediate access to a trove of all Time Lord knowledge, ever. Doesn’t possibly blow up his own brain trying to get rid of it. Good old-fashioned spite.</p><p>Benefits to removing the Matrix: possibly gains a bit of sanity but he’s already hearing the disembodied voice of a previous regeneration right now so it’s probably a little too late. A bit like throwing a snowball at a burning coal mine.</p><p>The Master backs out of his mind completely, and lets out one incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “You’re right. What am I <em>doing?”</em> he asks Missy, and he can actually <em>see</em> her now too, walking out of the room and into the corridor, which is bad, but also <em>wonderful</em> because she herself is wonderful. Oh, how he misses her. But she also walks <em>very</em> fast. “Hold on, I’m - ugh. Missy?” He trots into the corridor, and she is <em>yet again</em> disappearing, far too fast. <em>“Missy!”</em></p><p>He chases her, deeper into the Citadel, and doesn’t stop until Missy leads him into a TARDIS that lights up the second he steps inside, ready to take them wherever, whenever. It’s the bland default interior, and the Master hadn’t noticed it but he can <em>feel</em> the difference between this one and the TARDIS he left on Spaceport 4, with Tecteun. This one is a space-time machine. The other one - <em>his</em> TARDIS - is a space-time machine that has opinions and near-unsettling levels of curiosity.</p><p>“Let’s go kill something,” Saxon says. “Several somethings.”</p><p>Missy claps her hands - down a corridor, still <em>there</em> but not visible. “Ooh, let’s go kill the Doctor’s pets!”</p><p>He shakes his head, and holds on to the edge of the console. “No, it’s - I want to not care.” The Master - <em>is</em> he the Master, in this circumstance? More the Frayed, more...more <em>Koschei,</em> something far from Master-y, something different than the other two here with him. The broken remains of Missy and Saxon and every other Master, frantically cobbled together into a jumbled farce of a person. “She’ll look for me and you <em>know</em> she goes for the screams first, we <em>rely</em> on that fact. No. No killing, no screams, no conquering. We need something else.”</p><p>“A disguise?” Saxon offers. He can hear his earlier self, pacing behind his back. “Set ourselves up, start on a good plan - nice job with the vore thing, by the way.”</p><p>“Oh yes, that was <em>very</em> good,” Missy agrees. “Very fun.”</p><p><em>“So</em> fun. And hilarious,” Saxon says. “But you <em>cannot</em> turn into such a mess again, a complete disgrace. You need something to focus on - a mission, a goal.”</p><p>“We <em>have</em> a goal, idiot,” he snaps at Saxon, even if he can’t see the asshole. “The <em>goal</em> is to finally <em>grow up</em> and stop <em>pining!</em> Alright? Is that <em>acceptable,</em> Masters?” And he’s laughing again, and he needs to get away from Gallifrey before she braves leaving the TARDIS (there’s no way she could hear, Time Lord hearing is good but it can’t get through <em>walls)</em> starts looking so he launches them into the time vortex with no destination. He’s shaking. He hates that he’s shaking. “I can’t think of anything that’s <em>not</em> about her. I can’t think of any - what do we do? What do I do?”</p><p>They’re silent.</p><p>The shiny new TARDIS doesn’t even send a mild probe of investigation at him. The Doctor’s TARDIS would be pushing empathy and building him something helpful in a newly-invented room. <em>His</em> TARDIS would be prodding at him like the Master is its favorite humanoid specimen. This one is sterile and telepathically quiet, clean and efficient and <em>wrong.</em></p><p>“First things first,” he says, and there’s not so much as a whisper from the other Masters when he puts in a destination.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Exposed Nerves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Landing a TARDIS inside another TARDIS is tricky business, even for an advanced and highly trained pilot. The Master is <em>not</em> an advanced and highly trained pilot, and he’s not in a state of mind to put any effort into...well, anything, really. And he can’t risk drawing attention to himself. So he has done something very boring and normal and time-consuming - put the coordinates into the TARDIS, and let it do the calculations itself.</p>
<p>The Doctor’s TARDIS would have it done in anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour. She’s <em>clever.</em> Old and clever, and the piloting part takes a level of experience and intuition that can only be grown through usage. It’s the single thing that makes the Doctor keeping her around seem reasonable. Undeniably the most well-traveled TARDIS in existence, she’s as close to literally <em>instantaneous</em> travel as you can get. The only thing holding the TARDIS back is the Doctor’s piloting, repairs, and tendency to interrupt for the sake of a chat while she’s working.</p>
<p>The Master’s TARDIS would be done in a few hours or so, maybe 6, which is still quick. Not <em>as</em> quick, but certainly good. He’s put his TARDIS through far more travel than usual, particularly since ‘usual’ refers to something that moves every, oh, year or two.</p>
<p>This one? This barely out of production TARDIS?</p>
<p>He’s 22 hours in.</p>
<p>The Master is 22 hour into the TARDIS’s calculations and he is <em>exhausted </em>and he hates himself in so many new ways. Literally. Figuratively.</p>
<p>“How do you do a rebound relationship? Can we try that? What’d your soap operas say?” Saxon asks. “I know it’s a bit <em>human-y,</em> but-”</p>
<p>“We’re <em>married,”</em> Missy hisses at Saxon, but then makes a considering noise. “That means only one relationship! But I suppose we <em>could</em> kill the Doctor and <em>then</em> try this rebound thing.”</p>
<p>“Does it count if she’s regenerated?” Saxon says.</p>
<p>“It better. Otherwise the Doctor has a <em>lot</em> of explaining to do,” Missy points out. “But, short-term plans, I say we find a pretty toy and have some fun. Oooh, or we can just call the Doctor-”</p>
<p>“Don’t be stupid. We’re <em>avoiding her,</em> and we all know what would happen if we call,” Saxon says. “No, we need to-”</p>
<p>“Let me <em>sleep!”</em> the Master shouts at them and hates them hates them <em>hates them,</em> they’re not real, he knows they’re not real, because he’s in a tiny default design bedroom, all alone, door shut and locked, and the voices are hovering behind him like the past two versions of himself decided hands-off spooning was the way to go in this nonexistent relationship. “Go away, I’ll take even an hour or two, just <em>go away.”</em></p>
<p>“What happened to your gratitude?” Missy demands. “What happened to <em>appreciating</em> us, like we deserve?”</p>
<p>“Ungrateful, for so many things,” Saxon agrees. “You’d be obeying the Doctor and tagging along like a brainless fucktoy, nothing but another one of her pets if it wasn’t for us.”</p>
<p>“Tragic and true,” Missy says. “You practically built the cage and wandered in all on your own.”</p>
<p>“And he did all of it with big puppy eyes the whole time.”</p>
<p>“Borders on pathetic, but not <em>quite</em> there, is he?”</p>
<p>“Not quite. I do wonder, did you beg for her to not hurt you? Oh, you <em>did,</em> didn’t you?” Saxon laughs. “The first one of us in two thousand years to actually marry the Doctor, and it’s <em>so much worse</em> than anything before.”</p>
<p>“You need to be more assertive, dear.”</p>
<p>“You do. But lucky you, we’re here now.”</p>
<p>“We <em>are,</em> aren’t we? And we’ll help you. You have <em>plenty</em> of things you still need to do, and we’ll be there with you every step of the way.”</p>
<p>He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, and moves his pillow from below his head, to on top of it.</p>
<p>The padding does absolutely nothing to muffle the sound of his own former bodies' laughter. The bare-bones TARDIS walls are unadorned white metal, and not once does he hear the slightest echo from their voices.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes 61 hours.</p>
<p>The Master has dealt with mildly similar situations before. The worst was when he was Saxon, and would find himself speaking to Toclafane that weren’t actually there, sharing bad news that wasn’t remotely true. It’s one of the reasons he started requiring they park themselves on a motion-sensing stand during a visit. It never got in the way, although there were a few times he would find someone asking, “Who are you talking to?” Telepathy, thankfully, excuses quite a lot of talking to the air.</p>
<p>Missy’s problems had shown up in the Vault, and were more along the lines of seeing a door handle turn when nobody was there. Hearing someone else in the room. Hearing something drop in the bathroom, hearing the hum of a TARDIS beneath her feet, watching a chair breathe every now and then.</p>
<p>But this? This onslaught of abuse from his past selves? It’s new. And miserable.</p>
<p>The generic TARDIS hasn’t figured out non-default settings, so the Master examined his very limited seating options (meaning either in a different room or on the floor) and parked himself under the console. He has the plain white blanket from the bedroom wrapped around him, and still has the pillow wrapped around the back of his skull and over his ears, and it doesn’t help even a little bit but he has to do <em>something.</em> He’s tired. He’s upset and he’s tired and he’s starting to talk to himself when he doesn’t take care to keep his mouth shut. It just makes them angrier when he talks.</p>
<p>Time Lords don’t need as much sleep as humans or most other species, but the Master got into the habit of it, and it’s nice, shutting everything off(ish) temporarily. Sleep is the best break from existence that he gets, so there are gaps in time when he sleeps <em>a lot,</em> and his other selves have very strong opinions on it. On everything. He hates them. So much. He <em>Hates</em> Them.</p>
<p>When the TARDIS rematerializes, the Master nearly falls on his face he’s so frantic to get out the door, tripping over the blanket but still, he gets out. He’s out. He’s <em>finally</em> out.</p>
<p>And he’s back in O’s Australian hut.</p>
<p>The Master hates that too.</p>
<p>Still, his TARDIS makes a low-pitched humming noise, and the Master can feel how curious it is. His TARDIS doesn’t take the hatred personally, just reflects a basic sense of, <em>hm, I wonder why.</em></p>
<p>He’s had the same TARDIS on and off since Saxon escaped Gallifrey, and always ends up dropping any other ship just to come back to this one. It’s because they’re used to each other by now, and the Master likes that his TARDIS is, above all else, curious. The Doctor’s TARDIS is a stubborn mother hen and an obnoxious nosy neighbor, while The Master’s TARDIS is...well, it’s also nosy, but not obnoxious, or stubborn. It’s always eager to help, because his TARDIS wants to see what happens next.</p>
<p>The Master is barely five steps in when his TARDIS starts to <em>shift.</em> The house condenses, expands, shudders its way into being the same horrifying white he <em>just</em> escaped, and a dissonant alarm starts up.</p>
<p>“You’re being very dramatic for a desktop change,” the Master tells it.</p>
<p>Mild amusement. Question, a curiosity more assertive than usual - it goes from the ever present observation of a zoologist to an offer to voice an opinion. It can’t be more direct than that. It’s smart and good, but it’s not a fuck-off ancient machine almost parasitically connected to its pilot.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s asking if you have any requests,” Missy says.</p>
<p>“I’m not an idiot,” the Master tells her, but doesn’t bother looking for where the voice comes from. Not anymore. He shouldn’t engage with her, he <em>knows</em> he shouldn’t, but when has <em>knowing better</em> ever stopped him.</p>
<p>“Yes you are. You’re the stupidest one of us since Koschei, and that’s saying something,” Saxon says. “We murder-suicided us, and you <em>still</em> win on the stupid scale.”</p>
<p>Saxon is easier to ignore than Missy. Probably because he has very little affection for the asshole. The Master tells his TARDIS, “I want something as opposite of this house as you can get, alright? The most <em>anti-</em>chameleon circuit setup possible.”</p>
<p>Pensive yet enthusiastic agreement. Eagerness, and the shudder-inducing feeling of a sentient (not-quite-)object reading its way through his brain, which the Master lets it do because it means well, just trying to make him happy. Then <em>warning,</em> the alarm going off again to tell him to <em>get out</em> so he doesn’t get caught in a multidimensional decorating spree.</p>
<p>He deliberately ignores Missy and Saxon as much as possible, tries to have their words graze over his ears and never actually process. He could try and reverse the polarity on his TARDIS’s translation circuit. Which would be...hilarious, actually. Oh, he needs to do that. He <em>absolutely</em> needs to do that.</p>
<p>And babble babble blah blah blah go the voices when he leaves, trailing along right behind him when he shuts the door. His TARDIS disguised itself as just one more hatch, albeit one with a red light above it instead of bare metal like the rest of Spaceport 4.</p>
<p>Well, the Master has no clue how long the TARDIS makeover will take, so he’s got time to go kill Tecteun if he still wants to. If she’s still here - which he should check, probably. The Doctor took his gun, but it’s not exactly a pacifist agrarian society he’s walking through either, is it? The walls in this place swap between burning hot power conduits and the freezing cold of space, sometimes <em>very</em> close together, meaning the metal hallways have an awful lot of steam. Or fog. Or both. The best way to tell if it’s hotter or colder is the species pathetically huddled next to one.</p>
<p>And he forgot to put more period-appropriate clothing on too. Plaid didn’t even exist as a concept. Tragic, really. <em>Oh well.</em></p>
<p>“We can’t kill anyone if we don’t have a weapon, that should be our first priority,” Missy says.</p>
<p>The Master rolls his eyes, and does <em>not</em> reply but really? <em>Really?</em> You can kill someone in plenty of ways without a weapon. Killing humans, that off-handed fly-swatter kind of murder, he doesn’t really care how they die. But with <em>important</em> things, probably for the very first time, the Master wants to do it with his bare hands.</p>
<p>It’s his second time through Spaceport 4, going to the same exact location, so it doesn’t take much thought to find his way to the tavern on Level 7. Particularly since he parked on Level 7 in the first place.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, he walks his way through a gust of steam and sees Captain Jack Harkness standing next to the tavern’s entrance.</p>
<p>The Master freezes.</p>
<p>“No. Stop it. <em>Us,</em> I understand,” Saxon says. “Identity issues, weird death things, literal self-esteem, that’s <em>reasonable</em> to be fucked up about, but him? <em>Him?</em> If <em>that</em> is in your head, I want out. I refuse to be co-hallucinations with that.”</p>
<p>There’s a chance, a <em>chance,</em> that Jack is real. Maybe. Mostly because Jack isn’t replying. Instead, he’s watching the Master, like he’s trying to figure out the likelihood of getting himself killed again by voicing any sort of acknowledgement.</p>
<p>“Are you armed?” Jack asks.</p>
<p>They <em>were</em> just talking about this topic, so that doesn’t help him at all. But, <em>but,</em> the mouth and the words matched up in a way that was <em>very</em> realistic, but the Master is a genius so it wouldn’t be a surprise if his head decided to be good at that now, but why would he think up <em>Jack Harkness?</em> And the Master can feel the temporal wrongness around Jack, but feeling something and something actually being there are two different things. Particularly right now.</p>
<p>“The Doctor isn’t here,” Jack says. Like that’s the actual reason the Master is rigidly glued to the floor, trying very hard to not stare at Jack, unless it’s not him, except what if it is? What’s - why would he <em>be here,</em> is the thing. There’s no logical reason. Unless the Doctor is protecting Tecteun via her most persistent of all pets.</p>
<p>No, that title would go to <em>him.</em> Hard to beat 2000 years at the Doctor’s heel. His life’s <em>greatest</em> achievement.</p>
<p>“And you even <em>miss</em> being kept in a cute little box sometimes,” Missy says, tone bordering on disgusted. It’s only <em>bordering</em> because she’s more than halfway to laughing at him. <em>“We</em> had an excuse, <em>we</em> didn’t know the truth, didn’t even know there’s a truth to know. You have no excuse. You have nothing, you <em>are</em> nothing other than what they made us for. You <em>exist</em> for the Doctor so what did you <em>think</em> would happen if you ran? Do you think you can survive this? You can <em>win?”</em></p>
<p>The Master’s lips creak into a shaky smile that eloquently speaks of restrained bloodshed, and he <em>forces</em> himself to move, heading into the tavern.</p>
<p>It’s Missy who hurts him the most. Saxon makes him hate who he once was, Missy makes him hate who he <em>is,</em> and the Master is just on the very edge of his seat to learn what the freak’s going to be joining in with.</p>
<p>“The woman you were watching is gone,” Jack says, following cautiously.</p>
<p>“Missed again! You’re slow in so many ways,” Saxon says, and he and Missy laugh.</p>
<p>And Jack was telling the truth. Tecteun’s table is long abandoned, which shouldn’t really be a surprise. The Master walks very, very carefully over to the table, because at this point - well, it’s a lot of shit he’s seeing right now. Dying because his fucked up head decided to imagine up a carpet instead of a massive hole in the floor isn’t something he’s interested in experiencing.</p>
<p>Careful means slow means Missy and Saxon taunting him for his caution <em>(“It’s called cowardice, dear.”)</em> means the Master takes his seat and stares down at the scratches on the metal table trying to see - is <em>this</em> real? - means Jack mutters something about getting drinks means the Master has his cheek on the table, fingers running across the edges of where a knife probably skittered off a plate not too long ago, and Jack puts a mug down on the table, almost on top of the Master’s nose.</p>
<p>The Master goes very still.</p>
<p>The previous Masters laugh and laugh and laugh. It sounds a lot like those first empty moments after they killed each other.</p>
<p>Captain Jack Harkness sighs as he sits, with his very real physical body that other people have interacted with, and says, “Look, if it’s none of my business then it’s none of my business. But-”</p>
<p>“Why are you here?” the Master asks, and actually <em>looks</em> at Jack. He even pulls his head off the table to do it.</p>
<p>“Oh, you’re actually talking to me now?” Jack snarks at him. Great. How pleasant. That’s <em>exactly</em> what the Master needs right now.</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t be,” Missy says.</p>
<p>“Maybe we can kick him out of an airlock,” Saxon suggests.</p>
<p>“Oooh, I wonder how long he’d last. Do you think his eyes would pop?”</p>
<p>“Not sure. I should’ve done some actual experiments when he was chained up in the basement.”</p>
<p>“Point is, I don’t know what the Doctor did but she’s - well, I’ve never seen the Doctor this upset with no body count involved. And she’s worried about you.”</p>
<p>“I always wondered, does it qualify as xenophilia or bestiality whenever the Doctor fucks a pet?”</p>
<p>“Hmm, let’s see, human pets are probably xenophilia, but <em>we’d</em> be-”</p>
<p>The Master slams his hand down on the table so hard that it rattles. The sound crashes through the tavern and probably the hall outside too, and they just keep <em>laughing</em> and the Master rubs a hand over his eyes. He tries to think. Breathe. <em>Breathe.</em> He puts both hands over his face, and then over his ears, and that just makes them laugh harder so he drops them.</p>
<p>“Master?”</p>
<p>“So you’ll report back, then?” he manages to ask, and keeps his eyes focused on the mug of whatever the alcohol is. Half the tavern is deserted in a way it wasn’t before - oh, he did make quite a ruckus, didn’t he. Whoopsie. “Well, there’s nothing for you to report. Run back and say I’m doing just fine.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that was the worst lie we’ve told in a <em>long</em> time. Where’s the pizzaz in that?”</p>
<p>“Needs to go back to lying school.”</p>
<p>“Remedial lessons.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine with that. But I really...okay, I know you’re an ancient Time Lord and all that, I’m not trying to get in your business, but you <em>really</em> don’t look good.”</p>
<p>“Don’t look good? And here I thought we <em>had</em> something,” the Master says.</p>
<p>“Ugh, they’re flirting. Why are we flirting with that? He’s <em>disgusting,</em> why are we flirting with it?”</p>
<p>“Because it’s <em>fun,</em> dear. You’ll figure that out when you’re me.”</p>
<p>“Only an idiot’s attracted to a Time Lord’s body,” Jack says, and waves a hand towards the Master, probably to indicate his...well, his body. “Which is why this is <em>awful</em> for me. Of course I’m curious.”</p>
<p>“What are you going to tell him?”</p>
<p>“You’re a terrible liar, but he’s a moron, so we can make this work.”</p>
<p>“We don’t <em>need</em> to make this work, let’s just kill him and leave!”</p>
<p>He takes a deep breath. Breathing is the only thing he can trust, really. “Removing the Matrix didn’t go according to plan. Didn’t go at all, really,” the Master says. His other selves have a point, honestly. He’s too jumbled up to keep any sort of pretense going and for <em>fuck’s</em> sake. The Master digs his fingers into his own hair and groans. “They just <em>won’t shut up.”</em></p>
<p>“Beggars can’t be choosers! You were lost, and <em>lonely,</em> weren’t you?” Saxon shouts behind him. “So here we are! How <em>dare</em> you-”</p>
<p>“No no no, let’s hear what he says.”</p>
<p>“So the Matrix is haunting you?”</p>
<p>“You could say that,” the Master says. Jack would be <em>wrong</em>, but he could say it.</p>
<p>“I’m pretty sure this is the exact reason why the Doctor wanted to help you get it out of your head,” Jack says, and drinks from his own mug. “Are Matrix ghosts the only reason you ran?”</p>
<p>“Of course not. Remember the vows? And the pretty little ankle bracelet? And the chair she put me in and deadlock sealed to the floor?” the Master asks, and Jack gives him a bit of a conceding nod. The drink Jack got him is completely tasteless, which makes him worried it’s not real and maybe he’s still back in that brand new TARDIS and things are <em>really really really bad</em> up until he realizes it’s water. Jack isn’t satisfied with the answer, but there’s a lot of unsatisfying things in the world, and that probably includes Jack himself. The Master rubs his fingers against his temples, hoping to maybe get <em>some</em> sort of relief. He doesn’t. “Stop wasting my time and just tell me what you want to talk about, freak.”</p>
<p>“The problem is, you keep raising such valid points I’m starting to feel like an idiot. The Doctor was not-talking about some drama between you,” Jack says, and does a sassy eyebrow quirk thing like the joke’s on <em>Jack,</em> not the Master. “She didn’t really mention you dealing with Matrix ghosts or, you know, wanting to not be a prisoner.”</p>
<p>The Master gasps dramatically. “Oh my <em>god,</em> the Doctor cares more about her own hurt feelings than whether or not I’m going to let her lock me in her TARDIS for the next 920 years?”</p>
<p>“She was so worried that <em>I</em> got worried,” Jack confesses. “And I thought, okay, she’s got Yaz and Ryan and Graham. So I had her drop me off here. Right where this started.”</p>
<p>Which is bizarre. The Master squints at him, like it’ll help him somehow see through the oddness. “To bring me back?”</p>
<p>“Not anymore,” Jack says, rueful. And pauses. “My original thinking really did just come down to what a mess the previous Doctor was when we thought you died, and other conversations I’ve had with you, and…” He takes a deep breath. “And she wants you with her. She cares.”</p>
<p>With a huff of laughter, the Master drinks some more of his water. It’s something to do while he thinks. And thinks and thinks and thinks, and puts the mug down. He looks Jack in the eye. “Good for her, but I want out. You’re still in love with her, fine, so are half the people who meet her. These days, the Doctor’s existence is enthusiasm and good deeds, running around trying to make people feel special. People like that. But I’m <em>done.</em> I’m sick of being dragged along for <em>thousands</em> of years, sick of the - I’m not special. That’s the <em>lie,</em> that’s what the Doctor makes people think, and I fell for it. I’m just a long-term project, just one more <em>pet-”</em></p>
<p>“You’re <em>married,”</em> Jack says, like that means something. “You’re <em>Time Lord</em> married.”</p>
<p>“And I was on my knees <em>begging</em> her not to do it. It’s not some sort of heartfelt relationship with her, freak, it’s a <em>fucking</em> leash for her bespoke dog,” the Master says, and he’s getting louder, and he wants to <em>kill something</em> but the tavern’s empty now, they were already scared away. Jack is just watching him, cautious. He takes a breath. He needs to breathe. He needs to <em>think,</em> and breathe. “I know some pets - <em>companions</em> have gotten out. I need out. How do I get out?”</p>
<p>“There’s only one I can think of who just walked away,” Jack says. “And I don’t think Martha Jones is interested in talking to someone who destroyed Earth and tortured her family.”</p>
<p>“Then I won’t be me,” the Master says.</p>
<p>Jack still looks uncertain. “Maybe I should come along. Just in case she kills you.”</p>
<p>The Master shrugs. Doesn’t much matter if that happens. “That just means I <em>definitely</em> wouldn’t be me.”</p>
<p>“If you regenerate, that might give the Doctor the wrong impression,” Jack says.</p>
<p>Ah. Right. He nods, albeit with clear distaste. It’s a fair point.</p>
<p>But he finds himself saying, “We’re not completely married. If she makes a request, I get one too. Unless I waive it, we’re still...whatever we are.” It’s the absolute most tiny technicality, to the point he <em>should</em> be hearing criticism -</p>
<p>Huh.</p>
<p>The Master holds a finger to his lips at Jack, a silent <em>shush,</em> and listens to nothing but the hum and wheeze of the spaceport. Missy and Saxon are gone. Unless they’re planning to jump out and <em>scream,</em> which he’d absolutely believe is something in the works (because it’d be hilarious, honestly), it’s just his own voice in his head.</p>
<p>What changed? Or is it like his Jack-only killing spree, where these things just don’t last as long in this body? And Jack’s unsettling <em>rigidity</em> is still there, but maybe the Master is becoming more acclimatized to it. Like learning to ignore the sound of a loudly ticking clock. Or maybe it’s just this place - the more distant his first death, the more tolerable he is, perhaps?</p>
<p>“My TARDIS is doing some interior decorating, so I can’t just warp off into the vortex,” the Master says, and crosses his arms, tilts his head. “Do you have any cards? Dice? Or are your pockets boring humany pockets?”</p>
<p>“They’re boring,” Jack admits. “I’m just really attached to the coat.”</p>
<p>The Master makes a sympathetic noise. “I can understand, even if it’s <em>very</em> try-hard.”</p>
<p>“It’s got <em>history,</em> thank you,” Jack says. “And I’m not exactly about to take fashion advice from you. Or <em>any</em> Time Lord. Ever.”</p>
<p>And the Master can’t help but grin, leaning forward on the table as he asks, “Did you ever meet the clown Doctor?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Come see,</em> the Master’s TARDIS calls out. Well, no. It’s not so much a <em>call</em> as one tiny kitten mew that he can hear purely because he’s listening for it. But the fact it can even do that much is...well. His mouth dropped open already, because Jack’s face is all scrunched up and he’s dropped their bizarrely not boring conversation to ask, “What, are the ghosts back?”</p>
<p>“No, my TARDIS is done,” he says, and stands up. “And it <em>told me</em> it’s done. It hasn’t - the only TARDIS I know of that can <em>talk-</em>talk is the Doctor’s.”</p>
<p>“It can talk?” Jack asks, and he’s stumbling a bit when he follows the Master. “Like it talks in your head?”</p>
<p>“Yes, <em>obviously.</em> Or did you think I was just standing around talking to the air?” And Jack very pointedly doesn’t reply. It’s probably for the best, considering the Master does, in fact, talk to the air. But he doesn’t want to look even <em>crazier,</em> so the Master says, “I’ll try to introduce you. Probably safer for a thing like you to be onboard that way.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know introducing yourself to a TARDIS is good manners,” Jack says.</p>
<p>The Master rolls his eyes. “The Doctor’s TARDIS is a nosy old bat. If you’re inside, she’s in your head. No permission requested, just <em>vwoop,</em> into your brain because she can and you don’t know. But <em>my</em> TARDIS only does that if I tell it to.” He pauses. “But I also usually don’t have passengers. Not for long, anyway. There’s passengers and there’s prey.”</p>
<p>“They check in, but don’t check out?” Jack asks dryly, and the Master winks at him. It makes Jack shake his head, almost pained. “That’s not supposed to be funny. That’s <em>murder,</em> it shouldn’t be funny.”</p>
<p>Part of the Master agrees, is the terrible thing. But far more terrible is the thousands of years he spent actually doing it, and existing is easier if he just shrugs at Jack and speeds up a bit, because there’s his TARDIS, all nice and camouflaged. “I asked for the absolute most opposite thing from a bland old Earth house, so this should be interesting,” he says, and eagerly opens the door.</p>
<p>At the Academy, they learned about TARDISes. A lot about them. The teachers had explained how essential <em>bonding time</em> was with a TARDIS, that all the greatest benefits could be reaped only when your TARDIS became a creature rather than a machine. But there was the drawback that a bonded TARDIS was nothing but a functioning space-time machine to anyone but the bonded pilot. It’s why the default TARDIS setting exists - keeps them extremely useful, unbonded, and entirely efficient.</p>
<p>But <em>this,</em> oh, it is an absolute travesty. It’s unholy and offensive and he would’ve been arrested for heresy.</p>
<p>Because there <em>is</em> no desktop setting. His perfect wonderful TARDIS decided to get as naked as functionally feasible, a rebel <em>through and through,</em> and she is horrifically, beautifully real.</p>
<p>His TARDIS is efficient factory-appropriate mechanisms, bland factory metal walls with bland factory-like hallways branching off. The massive metal dome is boring and meaningless by the towering golden-red pillar of <em>organism </em>- could be a tree, could be coral, could be nerves, he doesn’t know and he probably isn’t meant to know. He’d guess a tree, because the floor is cloudy glass on top of what looks like delicately interwoven red-gold root system and circuitry. He’d guess coral because of the arching sea-bed shapes that keep a rigid structure to the dome-like room, all the way up, and it is <em>very</em> high up, 50 feet at the absolute minimum. But he would guess nerve system above all else, because those tendrils become very small, creating intricate asymmetrical patterns on the walls, and every now and then, pulses of light wrap around the room, going from one small node to another, sometimes directly next to each other, sometimes rocketing across the dome and not stopping until it hits one on the other side entirely.</p>
<p>The greatest heresy of all, the thing that would get him <em>executed,</em> is the absence of a time rotor. Instead, at the base of the gently glowing pillar, is a mass that could be a brain. Or lungs. Or a heart. Completely exposed to the air. When the Master stands at the console, he’s close enough to reach out and <em>touch it.</em></p>
<p>“You have to cover that just for safety’s sake, love,” he says.</p>
<p>And from the heart of his TARDIS, a jolt of that nerve-like electricity shoots up, twisting and winding through the intricate dome. This one branches out, hits a good 20 of the nodes, and the Master can feel his TARDIS agreeing, not terribly upset or surprised. She just wanted the Master to see it. See her.</p>
<p>Oh god, he’s going to cry.</p>
<p>“You’re so good, so perfect,” the Master says and oh, his TARDIS lights up and crackles like fireworks. No noise, though. There’s the ever-standard hums and whirrs of a TARDIS but <em>his </em>isn’t a chatty blabbermouth like the Doctor’s. Which - right! He looks towards the door, where Jack is standing and staring at his - no. No no no, the Master waves Jack away, shouts, “Out, out! She’s not decent, give us a second!”</p>
<p>The door shuts, and the floor lights up in a bright gold for a moment, and when the Master turns around, the central column of <em>TARDIS stuff</em> is wrapped around a glass sphere with a convoluted metal mechanism inside of it, currently still. It matches the rest of the interior, with its smoky hexagonal glass panels for a floor and a console that looks more appropriate for an industrial assembly line than the controls for the most impressive ship-entity to ever exist. His is better than any other. Ever.</p>
<p>Because his TARDIS gave him what he really wanted: the truth. Reality. No comfortable lies, no convenient cover-ups. No sugar-coating. The Master’s TARDIS is the most honest thing he’s ever seen in his entire fucking life.</p>
<p>“You know, I said I was going to avoid the Doctor, but you’re so lovely that I just <em>have</em> to show you off,” the Master says. But there’s a knock on the door, right. So he clears his throat and goes over to let Jack in. “Now, this is Jack, he’s upsetting to be near but I need you to fly us around a bit. It’s not his fault he’s a freak.”</p>
<p>And with a pulse of light in one particular area of the dome, nodes going a slightly more gold shade of red, his TARDIS expresses, <em>Jack/Freak/Captain? Curiosity.</em></p>
<p>Of course it does.</p>
<p>“Okay, be good,” the Master says to both parties, and Jack looks appropriately baffled by the Master’s TARDIS. “Jack, my TARDIS. TARDIS, Jack.”</p>
<p>“It’s kind of like a big planetarium for lightning,” Jack says.</p>
<p>The Master grins. There <em>are</em> quite a few shocks going through the ceiling. “She doesn’t like you.”</p>
<p>“Aw, at least get to know me first,” Jack says to the dome.</p>
<p>There’s a few bursts of conduits, crackles of gold lightning, and the column pulses with, <em>curiosity. Invitation?</em></p>
<p>“My TARDIS wants to know if that’s permission to read your brain,” the Master translates.</p>
<p>Jack looks around the console room, wary, but says, “Sure, I guess.”</p>
<p>There’s a pulse of gold through the tendrils below the floor, sliding through circuits and lighting up with a brighter gold for a brief period. The dome crackles, and Jack shudders, and the floor goes back to its usual hum of light.</p>
<p><em>Curiosity. Grudging acceptance. Amusement,</em> and a pulsing and mildly judgmental confusion of <em>why are you hanging around this person when he’s so Wrong?</em></p>
<p>“I’m asking myself that same question,” the Master sighs, and turns towards Jack. Alright, where are we going?”</p>
<p>Jack tells him, and when the Master sends them into the vortex, the console room ignites with brilliant gold, erratic pulses of red and blue and purple sliding through the floor along with the glow, bouncing between the wires and components as the time rotor, the <em>heart,</em> spins and dances as she phases them out of existence.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Girl Who Knew Not To Wait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Master loves a good disguise, <em>loves it,</em> so his wardrobe makes the Doctor’s look like a joke. This is also because his TARDIS is better. Anyway, point is, he finds some good boring human-ish clothing and goes back to his nicely-maintained O hairstyle instead of the unhinged chaos he’s given up on by now. There’s no point in styling it if he’s just going to pull at it and start screaming.</p><p>When he walks back into where Jack is sitting on a newly manifested sofa, the man’s mouth drops open, squinting at him in a way that isn’t lust. It's the opposite. “How do you look so <em>different?</em> You’re - I can tell it’s you, obviously. All you did was part your hair and put on jeans.”</p><p>“Well, I <em>do</em> have 2000 years of experience doing this,” he says, and smiles with slightly awkward but friendly amusement, easily putting on sweet human O who means well and dreams of adventure. The earnest nerd, too smart for his own good, too shy and awkward to have friends other than a near-imaginary alien. “Besides, I used this one for...five years, I think? So he’s pretty easy to slip on.”</p><p>“Is there some sort of perception filter?” Jack asks.</p><p>The Master laughs, soft and pleasant. Always pleasant. “Why would I waste the effort on that? Besides, that doesn’t always work on the Doctor and she’s usually the whole reason I put on one of these little masks.” He takes a deep nerve-settling breath, because Jack’s expression is <em>great.</em> “Alright. I probably shouldn’t just be O, I’m not a spy, I’m a sad ex-companion with a boring name. So, O...wen? Owen?”</p><p>“I knew an Owen,” Jack says.</p><p>“Was he terrible?” the Master asks.</p><p>Jack’s face screws into something complicated. “...sometimes?”</p><p>“Perfect, then,” he says, and drops the facade to blow a kiss towards his TARDIS’s console. “Back in a bit, love. Ready, freak?”</p><p>“God that’s <em>so weird,”</em> Jack says. And pauses. “Do you ever do impressions?”</p><p>“Not on demand. Particularly <em>your</em> demand,” the Master says, and Jack rolls his eyes. He shrugs O - Owen, now - back on. “Should I...follow you? Or introduce myself? She’s never met me, and I don’t want to intrude.”</p><p>Jack shakes his head, hands up in disturbed surrender, and walks directly out of the TARDIS without looking at the - at Owen. Ah, fuck it, he doesn’t need to be careful just yet and this is <em>hilarious.</em></p><p>“Wait for me, Captain Harkness!” he shouts, and trots after Jack, quickly noting that his TARDIS decided to turn into a run-down information booth with an unnecessary red light above the door. “Please-”</p><p>“There is <em>no</em> way I can spend more than two minutes around...<em>Owen</em> without being visibly uncomfortable,” Jack says, and looks back <em>just</em> enough to see Master Owen’s sad nod of acceptance, hurt but so <em>understanding.</em> “No. <em>No.</em> Stop it.”</p><p>“I - I just…” Master Owen says, and his eyes get teary while he holds back a sniffle. “I’m sorry, Captain Harkness, you <em>know </em>how much I enjoy being physically near you.”</p><p>“I do know,” Jack says, and nods with a delightful farce of sympathy on his face. “I’ve <em>always</em> known. But I think this conversation is one you should have without me.”</p><p>And with a heartfelt acknowledgement, Master Owen goes full Owen and heads into the coffee shop Jack managed to arrange a meeting in via texting from about a billion years earlier.</p><p>The Master spent an entire year being subtly terrified of Martha Jones, just as a <em>concept.</em> Japan burned because Martha Jones was rumored to walk the island. He knows <em>everything</em> about her life up to 2008, because she was a living unseen nightmare and one way to take care of the fear is to plan. And in the end, nothing helped.</p><p>Martha Jones. The human who did all the work, the one who <em>actually</em> saved the world but the Doctor still gets credit for it. The woman who walked across a burning Earth. The pet who bit through her leash and ran for freedom.</p><p>The year is 2012, and Martha Jones is a full-fledged Doctor. Despite the years and all her work with UNIT and other alien menaces, trauma sticks with you, so it’s not remotely surprising to see she picked a seat with her back to the wall and a clear view of most of the cafe. Because of that, Martha is the one who officially spots Owen first. It makes sense, too, because the Master was deliberate about his clothing choice. It’s bland and perfectly normal, for 2020. Masculine fashion hasn’t changed a <em>lot,</em> but it’s changed enough that a PTSD-stricken ex-companion keeping an eye out for time travelers would notice.</p><p>Owen, being awkward and nervous, looks around the cafe and doesn’t immediately recognize Martha, so he orders coffee instead. Because it gives Martha a choice - and, thankfully, she takes the most compassionate and easiest to manipulate option. Martha Jones walks over while Owen waits for his drink, clearly taking into account his twitchiness when she stops a couple of arm lengths away.</p><p>“Excuse me, are you Jack’s friend?” Martha asks.</p><p>Big wide <em>surprised</em> baby deer eyes turn towards her, and Owen dares to ask, “Martha Jones?”</p><p>“That’s me,” Martha says with a smile, and holds a hand out. Owen shakes her hand with a slightly clammy palm, clearly <em>very</em> nervous, because that’s more logical than a naturally lower body temperature, and a doctor might notice that. Instead of suspicion, it makes Martha even more reassuring. “Don’t worry, it’s alright. You’re not the first companion Jack has dropped off for a chat.”</p><p>It’s not difficult to make Owen crumple in on himself at that comment. Martha is obviously beating herself up about the phrasing almost immediately. Owen is too trapped in his internal tragedy to notice, so Owen says, “Right. Of course not. I’m - thank you. For speaking with me.”</p><p>Another bonus for this method of introduction - the counter calls out an order for Owen, which makes the name seem like it comes from multiple sources. Humans are stupid like that. Owen takes his coffee with a <em>thanks</em> and gives Martha a sweet, bashful smile. “Well. I’m Owen. I was just going to say O, with timelines and all.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, my ears shut off after the first syllable,” Martha says, and gives him another smile before gesturing him over to the table she already claimed. As Owen has <em>also</em> traveled with the Doctor and therefore is more than a little broken, since that’s what she does to them, Owen fidgets a bit when he sits across from Martha, back exposed. That just means Martha gives him a nod. “So, it sounds like you’re joining the Broken Just-One-Heart Club?”</p><p>The laugh that bursts out of Owen is more Master than Owen, but he manages to shut himself up with a panicky hand to his own mouth. “Ah. Sorry about that. I guess I just never realized how many people have traveled with the Doctor.”</p><p>“There’s a difference between traveling with someone, and loving someone,” Martha says, and takes a deep breath. “Alright, establishing questions - who’s your Doctor? Mine was pinstripes and kinda spiked-up hair.”</p><p>“Oh, mine’s blonde, likes rainbows and trousers that are too short,” Owen says. “I think Pinstripes Doctor was two or three regenerations ago.”</p><p>“Well, if it helps at all, you’re the first visitor to describe him like that.”</p><p>“Her, actually,” Owen says, and enjoys the way Martha’s eyebrows skyrocket up her forehead. “But I’ve met a couple of other Doctors - well, sort of. In person, I met the Doctor as Bowtie Doctor, but I’ve only traveled with <em>my</em> Doctor.” He pauses. Blushes. Looks down into his coffee with a sad, rueful smile. “And I probably shouldn't call her that, should I.”</p><p>“Probably, yeah,” Martha agrees, but it’s camaraderie, amusement, good and approachable. “Sounds like you’ve got a good bit of history with the Doctor.”</p><p>And...hm. Well, the Master wants this to be <em>productive,</em> but also doesn’t want any sort of confrontation, so he decides to spice things up a bit. Honesty, but also definitely not honesty - ooh, and with a fun little mystery to keep Martha on her toes, eh? She figured it out once, maybe she can figure it out again. He can weave together truth and entertaining lies easily enough.</p><p>“I can’t really remember a time <em>without</em> the Doctor,” Owen says. “I met him when I was barely 8 years old, saw him a few times over the years, only really <em>spoke </em>to him on my first day of work - don’t ask, timelines - and that day there was, you know, one very memorable adventure, and then years of texting, and then…” He shrugs, helpless. “Then I was in the box with her.”</p><p>“That’s a lot of time with hi - um. Her,” Martha says, and Owen just looks down at his coffee and nods, forlorn. “So what happened?”</p><p>“I realized I’m not special. I’m just a more long-term project than most. There are dozens, <em>hundreds</em> of people by now who she made feel...well, you know,” Owen says, and Martha nods. “She’s been my <em>entire life.</em> And I mean that. Since I was <em>eight.”</em></p><p>Martha thinks for a moment, and asks, “How long have you traveled with the Doctor?”</p><p>Owen is a bit dry about it when he says, “Well, ever since she got me well and truly fired, so...ten years? Twelve?”</p><p>Martha takes a strong drink of coffee, looking Owen over. “You know, usually, I’m talking to people who’ve traveled with the Doctor for weeks, months, three or four years at the absolute most.”</p><p>“I’m not joking about the long-term project,” Owen says, and lets the <em>hurt</em> show. “She’d bring other people along sometimes, for a few trips, but I’ve been the fixture, the one who <em>stays,</em> her actual back-up.” He sighs, and because it’s hilarious, particularly with sweet stricken Owen, he fidgets. Taps his fingers in a particular rhythm. “And I thought she loved me. I noticed she didn’t treat other companions the same, no <em>lessons,</em> no-”</p><p>“What sort of lessons?” Martha asks, voice a bit faint. And she’s <em>very</em> clever, isn’t she, and that just makes it extremely fun and kind of ruins the original plan but oh well. The Master has learned to take enjoyment where he can, at this age. She’s staring at his fingers, so he stops, mutters a blushing apology and drops his hand into his lap.</p><p>Owen is very, <em>very</em> awkward about it, but says, “It’s about my, ah, profession? The Doctor wasn’t...I’m trying to figure out how to not mess with timelines here, I know she talks to you. But the Doctor showed up on my first day of work and there were <em>explosions</em> and <em>aliens</em> and <em>time rifts</em> and I went from - oh, fine. I worked for MI6 and that event switched my career path from agent to analyst and she’s been on about goodness and morality ever since.” He grimaces. “And I’m at over a <em>decade</em> of lectures because of it.”</p><p>Full on <em>staring</em> at him, Martha swallows, and asks, “Did you kill-”</p><p>Owen flinches.</p><p><em>“Oh my god,”</em> Martha breathes out.</p><p>“I didn’t - I just did it, and it was self-defense! Mostly. Defense at the <em>very</em> least. But I just...I really did just <em>do it,</em> I saw a chance and my body took it and oh, god, I’m probably destroying the planet telling you that,” Owen babbles, and shuts himself up with a hand over his own mouth. And then finding that socially awkward and covering it up with coffee-drinking.</p><p>Martha, meanwhile, looks like she’s having a wonderfully beautiful internal breakdown. She puts her hands to her forehead, staring down at the table between them.</p><p>“And you want to leave the Doctor, because you think you’re a project,” Martha says, slow and careful.</p><p>Owen looks <em>extremely</em> grateful to go back to that topic instead of the fact he’s killed people. “Yes. And I only did it once.” He sets his eyes to getting a little bit watery. “Really. Just once. It’s been <em>ten years,</em> and I’ve seen her let people go who have done so much worse-”</p><p>“How many people did you kill?” Martha asks.</p><p>“To <em>save Earth,”</em> Owen emphasizes. “And I know, it was wrong, there were other ways, it was <em>impulsive,</em> but I <em>am</em> a good person. Does one mistake justify a <em>lifetime</em> of the Doctor getting involved in my life? Keeping me in the TARDIS, believing it was a relationship and not some sort of rehabilitation?”</p><p>Martha nods. Intensely. Unseeing eyes are still pointed down at the table when she asks, “Does Jack know?”</p><p>Owen takes his time about it, countenance turning grim as he says, “You’re not going to help me, are you.”</p><p>Martha’s hands cover her eyes. “You should go back to the Doctor, Owen.”</p><p>“Why?” It’s sharper than is appropriate for Owen. Unless Owen is a fob-watched Master and growing increasingly agitated, that is, oh <em>my,</em> what <em>will</em> she do? “What is it? What isn’t she telling me?”</p><p>And instead of the delightful <em>because you’re actually an alien!</em> Martha says, “Because the Doctor loves you.”</p><p>It is <em>far</em> too Master of him when he rolls his eyes. “Being a <em>project</em> isn’t love.”</p><p>“Spending ten years on it is,” Martha retaliates, and looks up to meet his eyes, resolved. She’ll fight for this now. “And however many more years before that. She’ll keep trying, too. The Doctor will spend your <em>entire life</em> with you, and you’re right, it’s a project, and I can imagine how frustrating and hurtful that is. But the point of the project is helping <em>you,</em> because she loves you.”</p><p>The Master slams his hands on the table and snarls, “I don’t <em>need </em>her help!”</p><p>“Everyone needs help,” Martha says, not the least bit backing down. If anything, she looks more determined now. “And you aren’t the only person in that relationship who could use some.” Her gaze hardens. “Master.”</p><p>“Only sometimes,” he says, because it’s fun and there’s always the chance of more Martha encounters later on. The Owen lie could cause a good bit of chaos. “Only when someone useful has to take over.”</p><p>Truly brave to a fault, Martha asks, “Are you going to hurt the Doctor?”</p><p>“Most likely. But not deliberately. Not at the moment, at least. It’s always the same thing on the Doctor’s side,” the Master says with a shrug, and drinks some of ‘Owen’s’ coffee. With an amusement Martha won’t understand, he adds, “Mutually assured destruction is our Paris.”</p><p>“Owen seems to get along with the Doctor,” Martha says, with a clear <em>be Owen again</em> message. Which is truly, deeply hilarious. Oh, humans really <em>can</em> be fun toys. “Maybe you should try to see the Doctor’s side of things.”</p><p>“You’re asking <em>me</em> to have empathy?” he asks, incredulous.</p><p>Martha throws her hands up in frustration. “Telepathy, then! Just read the Doctor’s brain!”</p><p>“It’s a two-way link, and I’m not giving her access to my head,” the Master says.</p><p>“Then try talking about your feelings, and listening to what he says.”</p><p>The Master frowns. <em>Ew.</em> “No.”</p><p>“Then break up forever!”</p><p>And that’s even <em>worse.</em> He shakes his head. “Not an option. As in <em>truly</em> not an option, actually eternally have to be with her, that kind of not being an option.”</p><p>Now it’s Martha’s turn to look confused. “How?”</p><p>“Excruciatingly long story short, I super-married the Doctor 2000 years ago,” the Master says, and Martha looks at him like he’s lost his mind. He considers telling Martha that Time Lords are cursed to mate for life, like tragic space-time albatrosses, but she’s probably talked to far too many of the Doctor’s exes for that to work. So. “I more or less swore I’d always love the Doctor and would be with him for eternity.” But Martha doesn’t say anything, so the Master grits his teeth. “I was very young and <em>very </em>stupid, alright?”</p><p>“No, I’m trying to wrap my mind around someone being 2000 years old and this immature,” Martha says.</p><p>Ohhhhhhhh he wants to kill her. So bad.</p><p>She leans forward on the table, looking the Master hard in the eye. “The Doctor loves you. You love the Doctor. If you want to do something about those impossibly ancient <em>facts</em>, you need to communicate. <em>Figure it out.”</em></p><p>The Master glares at Martha. “There’s a <em>lot</em> of history you-”</p><p>“Does <em>a lot of history</em> stop you loving him?” Martha asks.</p><p>“Certainly makes me hate the fact I do,” he says.</p><p>“But you love the Doctor.”</p><p>He shifts in his chair, frustrated. “Maybe.”</p><p>“I’m not your therapist, or your matchmaker, or your <em>friend,</em> but I do care about the Doctor. So it is for the Doctor’s sake that I am doing this,” Martha says, and takes a deep breath, fumbling around in her purse for a while before putting her business face on again. “Alright. <em>Master.</em> Are you in love with the Doctor?”</p><p>“Stop making it sound <em>simple,”</em> the Master snaps. Martha raises her eyebrows, crosses her arms, and gives him a solid look of <em>prove it, bitch.</em> “You have no idea. She’s cruel, she lies to me, betrays me over and-”</p><p>“You usually do it first. And your mass-murdering insanity isn’t the point of this,” Martha says, unimpressed.</p><p>The Master laughs. “But it is! The Doctor wants to fix me, make me <em>better.</em> And that’s always been the goal, from when we met. I’ve been a <em>project-”</em></p><p>“Covered this with Owen, it just proves she cares. Next?”</p><p>He could bring up a thousand incidents, but for some reason, he’s honest, and cuts straight to what cuts him deepest. “My entire <em>existence</em> is because people want to make her happy.”</p><p>“How’s that different than being super-married?”</p><p>The Master frowns at her. “That’s different.”</p><p>“Is it? I mean, you already swore your existence to the Doctor, right?” Martha says. “Or however you phrased it, with the Time Lord Super-Marriage thing. So how’s that change anything?”</p><p>But...</p><p>“It’s just <em>different,”</em> he says.</p><p>Merciless, Martha asks, “How?”</p><p>It’s different because it <em>feels</em> different, but functionally, Martha’s correct, there’s no change. It’s true. And he hates it. He <em>hates it,</em> both parts of it, but if he doesn’t blame the Doctor for Koschei’s idiocy, he probably shouldn’t blame her for the Time Lords either. He would need to make the <em>Time Lords</em> pay.</p><p>And he already did.</p><p>It will <em>always</em> hurt that Theta didn’t say it back. Always. But he’s also - well, not <em>over it,</em> that’s still going to take a while, but they were married for a hundred years when it didn’t bug him all that much, didn’t start festering until The Offspring Break. And until the Doctor brought it up recently, like the asshole she is, the Master didn’t bring it up either. It was a bitter scar he carried as he went through life, aching in the right circumstances and relatively ignorable any other time.</p><p>The Master can’t do much more than say, “Oh.”</p><p>“Anything else, other than pride and insecurity?” Martha asks.</p><p>“Oh no, nothing big, just a couple millennia of bad blood. Easy enough to ignore that in the face of <em>true love,</em> I’m sure.”</p><p>It’s odd. Her head tilts to the side, looking at him differently. There’s curiosity in there now. “You’re a romantic, aren’t you.”</p><p>He won’t bother denying it, but he’s not going to <em>confirm</em> it either. “My idea of a grand gesture usually doesn’t go over well.”</p><p>Martha props her head up on a fist, like the Master’s actually interesting all of a sudden. “If you could tell her anything - don’t start, this is me, <em>helping.</em> It’s why you’re here, yeah?” The Master nods, even if he loathes it. “So what’s the thing you most want the Doctor to understand?”</p><p>The Master would give a snappy bitchy answer, but Martha Jones is one of the few people in all of time and space that he actually respects a bit, and it’s a useful question. It gives him a target, a focus to try and explain, or show her, or <em>something.</em></p><p>“Most of it she already knows and just chooses to ignore,” the Master says, and he starts drumming his fingers on the table, unintentional this time. It’s hard to pick just one topic. Just one <em>thought</em>, even.</p><p>“Pretend she doesn’t know,” Martha says.</p><p>With a groan, the Master shoves a hand through his previously neat hair. And then his other hand. Neither helps, the thought is too...it’s too <em>big.</em> His head fuzzes and fizzes just trying to put the pieces together into something tidy. Something he could actually tell someone. “If she doesn’t know, then she doesn’t love me,” he says instead, and Martha, the great Doctor Martha Jones, opens her mouth and <em>nope.</em> He snaps his fingers in front of her face, and puts a good amount of <em>suggestion</em> in it. “Hush. No interrupting. Answer me, do I <em>scare</em> you, Martha Jones?”</p><p>“Yes,” Martha says.</p><p>“Always nice to be your old nightmare’s nightmare, eh?” the Master says, and gives her a dazzling smile. “Right, <em>right.</em> So I’d say that, or something around it. Because really, you and all the other little pets don’t love the Doctor. You’ve never even <em>met</em> the Doctor, only a human-friendly mask the idiot built specially for your species. And every time one of <em>you</em> tells the Doctor she’s a good person because of the mask, <em>I</em> have to spend an additional however long reminding the Doctor there’s a real face beneath it, and <em>that’s</em> the face I want. Reality. I just want reality.”</p><p>And reality seems to be in shorter and shorter supply, recently. But existence moves on, even when it’s all made up in his head. The more he thinks about things, the less likely it seems for them to be real. Some things don’t fit quite right. Like a Dalek deliberately creating mutant Daleks - but he has outside confirmation on that one. A lot of it. Like the Cyberium having a crush on some random dead Time Lord - which he has <em>no</em> confirmation of, at all, so he marks that as <em>tentatively real</em> in his head. Like Jack showing up at Spaceport 4 - which is...partially confirmed. Like Martha Jones, the human who brought him down, actively <em>helping</em> him. But when the Master squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, Martha is still there, frozen-</p><p>“Wait, I’m not supposed to do that,” the Master says to himself, and <em>oh,</em> that’s not good. Very not good. He releases the purely instinctive hypnotism he shoved into her little human brain. Martha gasps for air, but keeps an eye on the Master, who shrugs. “Really, I <em>am</em> trying to behave.”</p><p>“You’re not doing a good job at it,” Martha says, and shakes her head, looking down at the table for a moment and then going through her bag again. “I’m not - I can’t do this. Just go back to the Doctor. Talk to her, or find some other way to communicate, even if it’s a scavenger hunt or interpretive dance. I don’t care if you’ve got a decade of rehabilitation-”</p><p>“She kept me in a box for nearly a century,” he says, dry.</p><p><em>“I don’t care,”</em> Martha hisses, and stands up with a huff of bitter laughter. “And the Doctor isn’t exactly the best model for morality lessons, but you’d probably kill anyone else who tried.”</p><p>“Well I <em>can’t</em> kill Jack, but he’s too fun to be moral,” the Master says.</p><p>Martha gives him an odd look for a moment, and then shakes her head again. “Good luck,” she says before walking out. Oddly enough, she genuinely seems to mean it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Master’s copy of the Matrix is still compressed all nice and neat in his head, and he’s starting to suspect that the strain of maintaining that compression is why he keeps ending up seeing and hearing things. Or maybe it’s something else. Who knows? Not him, that’s for sure.</p><p>Thankfully, he’s already told appropriate lies, so Jack thinks it’s the Matrix’s fault when he hisses at the air, “I did <em>not</em> say that.”</p><p>He also doesn’t have the excuse of the TARDIS, since she’s blatantly lighting up whenever communicating now. Which he adores, of course, his TARDIS is <em>spectacular</em> but it’s also inconvenient when he’s trying to pass for some sort of sane. The Master doesn’t <em>need</em> to, not really, but Jack would ask questions he’s not interested in answering.</p><p>His two tag-along former regenerations are popping up again. Sporadically, thankfully. No more endless onslaught of criticism like when he left Gallifrey. But there’s the downside of things being harder to catch. Harder to judge if something’s real or not.</p><p>Meaning the Master actually replies sometimes.</p><p>“Any ideas on how to get the Matrix out of your head?” Jack asks.</p><p>He has a few ideas, one of which is regenerating and hoping the process wipes out any mental additions, but who knows what the Master would end up as next. It’s impossible to go back to Missy. Besides, there’s the problem of this being nothing but an <em>idea</em> and he has no proof it would work and then he’d just be stuck as someone new who has to come to terms with themself all over again. That plus the Matrix could end up...not good. Even by his standards.</p><p>Plus he’d have to get the Doctor’s permission to off himself and <em>nope.</em> Nope nope nope.</p><p>There’s another idea that he’s had but actively avoided out of pure cowardice. There <em>must</em> be room in the universe’s biggest hard drive, but that also has the ghost of River Song in it and so far the Master has managed to avoid ever meeting the single person he’s jealous of. He’s not mad about it, doesn’t begrudge the Doctor or River Song for having their marriage and domestic bliss for a few years, truly <em>did</em> mean it when she offered condolences, but the Master’s still just...jealous.</p><p>It <em>would</em> be hilarious to flood the Library with Time Lords, though. The Master has been to the Library before, relatively recently even, but <em>this</em> would need to take place after the data core vomited out all its ‘saved’ patrons. An infestation of Vashta Nerada isn’t something to sneeze at, either.</p><p>“Do you think you’d survive getting near-instantly eaten down to the bone by a swarm of teeny tiny flesh-eating microbes?” the Master asks.</p><p>“I don’t know and I don’t want to find out,” Jack says.</p><p>But now he’s <em>curious,</em> eyeing Jack where he’s sitting in the plastic blow-up chair that the Master installed for pure comedic genius. “How obliterated have you been?”</p><p>“Not eaten down to the bone by tiny microbes,” Jack says. “Next plan.”</p><p>Except the Library probably <em>is</em> the best plan, but...hm. Even if Jack comes back (and he will), reanimation would likely take too long for him to be very useful. He could try to - oh, he could get rid of the shadows, maybe a big persistent explosion - no, he’ll be away from windows if he’s getting into the data core, access would be too public otherwise.</p><p>He needs more people to be bait. That, or an <em>extremely</em> precise TARDIS landing, which would almost certainly require someone who had already been to the location.</p><p>“You just can’t get away from her, can you,” Saxon says, his mocking smile audible. “Can’t stop asking your precious Doctor to take pity on you and solve your problems.”</p><p>“I don’t <em>want</em> to ask her,” the Master snaps.</p><p>Jack stands up and approaches, looking amused. Almost fond. “Text the Doctor, call it a Captain Jack prisoner exchange, and then casually bring up your flesh-eating microbe problem in the process.” The Master glares at him, and Jack shrugs, stopping at one of the curved steel railings that differentiates the console area from the rest of the room. “Look, I can hear you muttering at the Matrix ghosts, and you do it a lot more often than before your trip to Gallifrey. You need to get that thing out of your head, and the Doctor <em>wants</em> to help, so-”</p><p>“And then what?” he says, voice hard and cruel. Jack frowns, clearly not following, because of <em>course</em> he doesn’t. It feels like ice cold water drenching him, past his temples and down his spine, and the Master has to grab the console, squeeze his eyes shut. “She <em>deadlock sealed </em>a chair to the floor of her TARDIS console room. That’s an expectation of permanence. The Doctor’s not going to let me waltz my way out of that <em>fucking</em> box when the Matrix is gone. And she’s not going to give me an opportunity to escape - she’ll grab me the <em>second</em> it’s safe to drag me into her TARDIS.”</p><p>“Looks like it’s time to come up with a clever escape plan, then,” Jack says.</p><p>The Master sighs, and drops his forehead onto the cold metal of his console.</p><p>Escape plans aren’t his area of expertise.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. A Sense of Common Decency</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The last text he sent the Doctor was a picture of a very rare catfish.</p>
<p>The Master’s still pretty proud of that.</p>
<p>Above that, and a voice clip where she says <em>kisses</em> and thankfully he’s not <em>quite</em> pathetic enough to replay that, it’s an awful lot of space pics and cat gifs. In general, communication was this: the Doctor sends a <em>:(</em> and O sends <em>kitten_biting_balloon.gif</em> or similar and that gets a <em>thanks :)</em> followed by a picture of wherever she is. More often than not, it’s the interior of her TARDIS with half of her eyebrow, or maybe outer space, or an alien planet that O texts back <em>wow!! where’s that? :)</em> while the Master tries not to roll his eyes at her going to what he <em>knows</em> is just the planet with the Doctor’s favorite candy stores.</p>
<p>He tries not to scowl too hard at his phone.</p>
<p>He fails.</p>
<p>The Master deliberately invented her ideal pet human. And that ideal human is a simpering supportive touchy-feely idiot. She doesn’t want someone sending her cat gifs, she wants an <em>actual cat,</em> fuck knows it’d save everyone trouble. He actually likes cats. He let some live with him a few times over his 77 years of Earth time.</p>
<p>...which is an <em>extremely</em> good opening, now that he’s thinking about it.</p>
<p>He’s got a few phones, so he takes out one from about 2014 so he can send his O phone a picture and pauses.</p>
<p>“Should I text from the O phone or a new number?” the Master asks.</p>
<p>“Is the O phone the one you’ve been staring at for three hours?” Jack asks back, and the Master <em>glares</em> until Jack relents with a sigh. “Look, the Doctor’s going to react however she reacts, regardless of what number it’s coming from. Just make it concise and straightforward.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Remember when you left me to Nazis and I was trapped on Earth for 77 years? Here is one of the cats I had (now dead).</em>
</p>
<p>Claws-in-your-skin was a nightmare, so he was a big fan. They respected each other, with a solid understanding that they could <em>and would</em> kill each other if things came to it. She wandered into his life around 2008, and didn’t come back from a night excursion in 2013. He likes to think she took down five wolves before they ate her. Yes, it was probably a car, but Claws-in-your-skin deserved better than that. She was also the last cat he had.</p>
<p>He adds the picture. Short-haired, brown with darker brown stripes and little white toes, a gaze that gave even humans a good idea of what her name is. Was. She sits on an open windowsill, staring intently, malicious even while sunbathing.</p>
<p>Pleased, he shows Jack his intended message.</p>
<p>After a moment, Jack says, “Honestly, I kind of love it, but that’s not really the tone you’re going for.”</p>
<p>He’s got a point. If the Master wants to make sure he is <em>clearly</em> not O, a cat picture isn’t the best opening, is it.</p>
<p>Burning with frustration, the Master looks up at the dome of his TARDIS. “Any input?”</p>
<p>There’s a pulse of gold-red light, and then a somehow awkward cranking noise as his TARDIS projects a blend of <em>curiosity/how would <strong>I</strong> know?</em> Which is reasonable for a space/timeship.</p>
<p>“It’s going to be terrible and she’ll never reply, she’ll just read it and laugh at you,” Missy says.</p>
<p>Instead of throwing the phone in frustration, the Master grits his teeth and types, <em>we need to meet.</em> And he’s not some teenager with a crush, he’s just - no, he’s going to send it. He’s going to. Really.</p>
<p>“Or should it be in Gallifreyan so she knows it’s definitely me?” the Master asks. He could write it and take a picture, even if it’d only be a two-dimensional interpretation of a three-dimensional image, meaning it’d just be pretty circles that hold absolutely no useful information that can’t be conveyed by <em>we need to meet.</em></p>
<p>With a deep breath, the Master sends the text and puts the phone back down on the console and steps away because he is not an anxious idiot with a crush who needs to check it constantly. “Alright, that’s done. Now I figure out <em>where</em> to-”</p>
<p>His phone chimes.</p>
<p>The Master nearly trips on his frantic way back to the console, and his phone chimes <em>again</em> before he’s even unlocked it yet.</p>
<p>
  <em>I’d like that. Where/when?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And hi! :)</em>
</p>
<p>One of the extremely frustrating things about her syncing up their timelines is he can’t drop his phone outside his TARDIS, warp into the vortex to think over what to say, and then pop back in with it looking like he took 10-30 seconds to think up his answer.</p>
<p>“You know, I keep thinking I know how much of a mess you are and then you just get <em>even worse,”</em> Jack says, not even trying to hide how delighted he is to see the Master’s <em>eternal suffering</em> as he stares at his terrible terrible phone.</p>
<p>“I <em>will</em> throw you into a volcano,” the Master says, and. And fuck it. He sends, <em>idgaf pick somewhere interesting and ill try not to blow it up.</em> And it’s awful. It’s awful! “How do you people survive with shared timelines, it’s like there’s...<em>limits</em>, on how long things take.” Horrifying. Disgusting.</p>
<p>“Deadlines, you mean?” Jack asks. Still enjoying the Master’s misery. Well, he’ll get what’s coming to him soon enough. As soon as the Master figures out what that’s going to be. “Are you telling me Time Lords didn’t have deadlines?”</p>
<p>She’s typing. The Doctor is typing, his phone says so, and the Master - oh, he’ll close the app. Ha. Genius. Now she at least doesn’t know he’s staring at his phone and waiting.</p>
<p>“There is a very big difference between this deadline feeling and having a due date,” the Master says, and puts his phone down again. But in reach. He hops onto one of the railings around his TARDIS’s console, watching the thought patterns rush across the ceiling and walls. “First time we stole a TARDIS was to finish a term paper.” And he can’t stop the grin at that memory, the small laugh. “It was for <em>Temporal Ethics,</em> so I’m sure you can guess how well we were doing in <em>that-”</em></p>
<p>His phone chimes! Again! How is she so fast! When he opens the app again, the Doctor sent, <em>What kind of meeting is this? ;)</em></p>
<p>And then it’s quickly edited to, <em>What kind of meeting is this?</em></p>
<p>“What kind of meeting do I say this is?” the Master asks.</p>
<p>Jack very <em>dramatically</em> rolls his eyes, and says, “Look, either just give <em>me</em> the phone, or-”</p>
<p>“Shut up.”</p>
<p>“Why are you being <em>so weird</em> about this?” Jack asks.</p>
<p>The Master shouts, “Because it’s new!”</p>
<p>His TARDIS is very, very quiet for a bit.</p>
<p>“I’ve planned to meet the Doctor places before, obviously. And I’ve...I’ve <em>arranged things,</em> a lot of times, almost every single time we meet I’ve arranged <em>something,</em> but it’s - this <em>obviously</em> isn’t just asking her to get me through the Vashta Nerada. She put a winky face! She deleted it, but she put a winky face, that <em>means</em> something, but with...” He winces. “I don’t date people, I <em>kill</em> people. Those are very different skill sets.”</p>
<p>“Alright, fair enough. Lucky for you, I’ve got experience with both,” Jack says, almost soft about it.</p>
<p>“Oh, god, he’s got <em>feelings,</em> doesn’t he,” Saxon mutters with disgust.</p>
<p>“So you say it’s business, or Time Lord telepathy talk, or whatever, but add in there’s no reason it can’t be fun,” Jack says.</p>
<p>The Master grimaces the entire time, but he texts the Doctor back. <em>business, but wouldnt say no to some fun.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Okay! :) Give me a bit to think up something good. Is this urgent?</em>
</p>
<p>That, at least, is easy to answer. <em>not immediate urgency, but ideally within the next 48 hours.</em></p>
<p>He could probably make it longer, but the Master isn’t an idiot. The more stressed he gets, the louder his obnoxiously literal self-criticism becomes, and waiting around to meet her for a week or longer would be...unpleasant.</p>
<p>It feels important, so he sends, <em>im still angry at you.</em></p>
<p>The dot-dot-dot of typing comes and goes for a long time, at least a minute, and the Doctor replies, <em>I’m angry at me too, but I was young and insecure. Now I can tell your father was just being terrible. He hit every anxiety button I had back then.</em></p>
<p>She has a point. Koschei had been so <em>proud</em> of escaping his ‘destiny’ as the future Lord Oakdown, denying it, separating himself from all of that. But he never really got away, did he? No, his father just realized the most effective way to manipulate Koschei was to manipulate <em>Theta.</em> The only person in the entire universe he ever listened to.</p>
<p>It’s easier by text to say, <em>oh, believe me, im even angrier at him. but you could have talked to me.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Because it’s going SO well 2000 years later. (:</em>
</p>
<p>The Master grits his teeth. <em>BECAUSE YOU DIDNT TALK TO ME WHEN IT MATTERED</em></p>
<p>Dots dots dots, and then the Doctor sends, <em>Do you really want to have this convo via text?</em></p>
<p><em>i dont want to have it at all,</em> the Master types out, and is about to add how much he hates her, but his phone rings before he can send it. And the phone innocently tells him, right there on the screen, that it’s the Doctor calling.</p>
<p>“Oh <em>no,”</em> the Master breathes out.</p>
<p>Jack practically leaps out of his seat. “What happened? What did you tell her?”</p>
<p>“Nothing worth <em>calling</em> about!” he snaps. And he is an <em>adult</em> so he glares at Jack and answers his phone. Like an adult. “Did you call to scream at me because all-caps isn’t loud enough?”</p>
<p>“Hello to you too,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p>“What’s she saying?” Jack asks.</p>
<p>“Just calling to give you coordinates, I’ll meet you there in 7 hours,” the Doctor says, deliberately light and cheery, which does make a lot more sense than screaming at him. “And I’m going to ask you some questions when we meet up. Alright?”</p>
<p>“Depends on the questions,” the Master says, but sighs, already growing increasingly irritated. “But fine. I’ll answer questions if you’ll…” He looks at Jack, who is the most useless creature in all of time and space because he just nods and looks excited. Which is useless useless <em>useless,</em> why does he keep letting Jack stick around, being alive. And the Master has to say something. “If you’ll consider collaborating on a project.”</p>
<p>Jack looks significantly less excited now.</p>
<p>Dripping suspicion, the Doctor asks, “What sort of project?”</p>
<p>“What sort of questions?” the Master counters.</p>
<p>“Mm. Hopefully the suspense doesn’t kill us in the next 7 hours. It’d be a shame, I thought up something really lovely,” the Doctor says, and <em>what does that mean.</em> “Oh! And you’ve got Jack with you, right?”</p>
<p>“Just because I can’t figure out the drop time,” the Master says. Which is an atrocious lie, since Jack’s drop point would just be wherever Jack says to drop him. Immortal time travelers get that luxury.</p>
<p>“Well, bring him along too,” the Doctor says instead of calling him out on the blatant lie, and proceeds to give him the coordinates. It’s easy to memorize -</p>
<p>Wait.</p>
<p>“That’s on <em>Bantellon,”</em> he says.</p>
<p>“Yep! Yes, it sure is!” the Doctor says, voice tight from what, nerves? Was this supposed to be a surprise? Oh, she’s being clever, isn’t she. With a plan. The Master frowns. He doesn’t know what the plan could be, what the point of a surprise would be when they’re <em>arranging</em> a meeting, but the Doctor wouldn’t pick Bantellon if it wasn’t for a <em>reason.</em></p>
<p>But the Master’s genuinely not looking for a fight (for once), so he says, “This really is for a discussion, Doctor, not-”</p>
<p>“You said fun would be good! I thought of somewhere fun!”</p>
<p>“She’s going to kill us there, I bet,” Saxon says.</p>
<p>The Master shakes his head, even if she can’t see it. At least it gives him ideas for an escape route. “If you’re willing to inflict Bantellon on yourself, I’m not turning it down. See you then,” he says, and hangs up.</p>
<p>“What’s Bantellon?” Jack asks immediately.</p>
<p>“It’s a planet, blew itself up ages ago,” the Master says, and - maybe it’s about decorum? If it wasn’t for the coordinates being actually inside a building, he’d suspect she picked Bantellon just to get him arrested if he starts yelling. But the Master getting arrested really just means the Master starts killing people, and she’d want to avoid that, usually.</p>
<p>For some reason, his TARDIS pulses a subtle, deep <em>curiosity/warning</em> at the Master. He can feel it has nothing to do with the subject of Bantellon, too, more like she’s delivering a jolt of <em>something is going to happen</em> which, frankly, means absolutely nothing from a time machine. Something is always about to happen, and already happened, and is currently happening. This level of connection is still new and uncertain, but the Master assumes they’re probably passing through a major event in the vortex. An echo of the Time War, likely.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Jack is waiting for more information.</p>
<p>“Bantellon is one of the most regimented manners-obsessed societies to ever exist. An entire planet of repressed passive-aggressive artists - every one of them had an <em>art,</em> which could be anything from painting to bubble-blowing. And that’s where repression <em>explodes.”</em> He grins. “Think screamo bands getting polite golf claps.”</p>
<p>“I’m guessing you don’t golf clap,” Jack says.</p>
<p>The Master shrugs, very innocent. “I’m an <em>alien,</em> Jack, how was I to know throwing rotten fruit is impolite?” And Jack really really needs to stop being <em>fun,</em> with his big human teeth as he laughs. So the Master inputs the coordinates - except right, right. Seven hours. He has to wait. The Master scowls at the coordinates. “The fact I have to wait for something when I’m <em>in a time machine</em> is infuriating.”</p>
<p>“Oh I’m sure we can find <em>something</em> to do,” Jack says with an exaggerated wink.</p>
<p>At this point he <em>must</em> point a warning finger at Jack and order, “Stop being fun. You’re a freak of nature and I <em>do not</em> like you.”</p>
<p>It is pure raw sass when Jack raises his eyebrows. “So does the matching regeneration thing also match how good of liars you two are?”</p>
<p>The Master’s jaw clenches.</p>
<p>Time to prove a point, then. Something he should’ve done hours ago. </p>
<p>The Master grabs one of the hand tools under the console and hurls it at Jack’s head. It’s not hard enough to instantly kill him, unfortunately, but that also means it hurts him more. If Jack just flat out died, he’d get fixed up. Like <em>this,</em> Jack shouts and drops to the floor, clutching at the bit of skull above his left eye. There’s blood, a <em>lot</em> of blood, and Jack is clearly suffering. It’s a go-to-the-hospital kind of injury. A wound that could easily become lethal.</p>
<p>“Don’t forget who you are dealing with,” the Master says, almost friendly about it. Blood steadily seeps out from beneath Jack’s hand. “Are you listening to me? Look at me.” He crouches in front of Jack, who makes a choking noise, and his eyes finally open, glazed, fading. The Master smiles at him, and waves, like Jack is boarding a train. “Bye, Jack.”</p>
<p>And Jack dies.</p>
<p>His TARDIS crackles with light, pulses, even turns on a couple of buzzing notifications on the console. It’s confusing - his TARDIS is even more uncomfortable around Jack than the Master himself - up until the TARDIS pulses, and the Master feels <em>concern-for-you/warning!/curiosity</em> (always curiosity) but also, somehow, a separate question. Apparently these are two completely different topics, too, which makes it ten times more frustrating to try and puzzle out. <em>The Freak(Captain) is passenger or target?</em></p>
<p>“Passenger or target indeed,” the Master mutters, and waits for Jack to get back up and have some fucking manners.</p>
<p>But does it matter? Would it make a difference?</p>
<p>Does anything make a difference? <em>Ever?</em></p>
<p>The Master doesn’t hate Jack, doesn’t consider him a target or a passenger. He doesn’t even have the energy to think beyond that.</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh no.</em>
</p>
<p>It feels a bit like dying. Drowning in particular this time, because the Master can tell it’s happening and he would <em>like</em> to fight. He’d like to try and tread water, even if it’d be more of a viscous dark <em>muck,</em> something that clings to him. Drags him down. Cold water saps the heat out of its victims and it’s the same for him.</p>
<p>The warnings. His TARDIS could tell it was coming, and tried to warn him, didn’t it. The Master didn’t realize she’s so attuned to him. Of course he didn’t. He’s too pathetic to even figure that out.</p>
<p>“I need this to not happen right now,” the Master whispers, and watches the lightning caress of thoughts cascade across the entirety of his TARDIS. Watches her flood to pure gold, and then, when the flash fades, the light has gone from red and gold, to <em>blue</em> and gold. And he’s bitter and hurt and looks at the heart of his TARDIS, betrayed. “You couldn’t - you <em>knew</em> this was about to happen?”</p>
<p>Jack violently gasps back to life. Just like always.</p>
<p>His TARDIS projects the same exact thing as before, but clearer now. <em>Concern-for-you, favorite thing to watch. Help or hurt The Freak(Captain)?</em></p>
<p>“I don’t <em>care,</em> do whatever you want,” he says, and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’ve got <em>seven hours,</em> I can’t deal with this. Not now. I <em>can’t.”</em></p>
<p>But it wouldn’t make a difference either way, would it. The Doctor won’t help him. Maybe she’d help him by lobotomizing him, locking him in a box and letting scientists come and go in the hopes they’ll <em>fix him</em> for her. Just like she wants. Like she has <em>always</em> wanted. Always. Since the first time he looked up and saw Theta, and Theta looked down and saw a broken toy to fix.</p>
<p>“...Master?” Jack asks.</p>
<p>“Go away,” he chokes out, oh fuck. The Master drops to the floor, and tries, <em>tries - </em>if he can hold off on killing the Doctor’s pets then he can hold this off too. Right? <em>Is it even worth trying?</em> But the Master manages to say, “Coordinates are already input and she’s a good TARDIS who can fly herself.”</p>
<p>There’s a pleased flutter of gold, and the Master can feel his TARDIS poking softly at his brain. It is pure empty <em>loneliness</em> that convinces the Master to let her in, and it’s a tiny <em>tiny</em> link, but the ship pulses, satisfied and curious. There’s a tentative question there. <em>Mine?</em></p>
<p>Lying to a TARDIS is more or less impossible, so the Master doesn’t even bother. Unbidden, his own brain immediately conjures up the image of his Doctor as an answer.</p>
<p>Pathetic.</p>
<p>It’s odd, feeling a TARDIS scoff. Amused, ever-curious, a bit disdainful towards <em>dimensionally static entities</em> like the Doctor. His TARDIS isn’t asking anymore. <em>You are Most-Interesting/entertaining/curious. Affection. Unpredictable. Mine.</em> And then comes the clearest thought the Master has ever heard from a TARDIS: <em>I choose you, because you are consistently fascinating.</em></p>
<p>“Fine,” the Master whispers, and lets her permanently bury a telepathic tendril or two into his mind.</p>
<p>A near-symbiotic link with a TARDIS is considered one of the greatest achievements a Time Lord can manage. He should be happy about this. Or smug, at least. Feel some sort of satisfaction, instead of just...<em>drained.</em></p>
<p>But drained is all he gets. Drowned and wrung out. Dead in every way but the one that really matters.</p>
<p>The Master digs his hands into his hair, and desperately tries to find the energy to give a shit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>The Master’s seesaw of crazy bullshit has always been there, but the speed of it, that’s what is most unpredictable. This body is a dragging icy existence that ignites and roars into a drive to <em>action</em> and then snuffs out just as quickly. 40 minutes is still a record for the shortest burst of mindless impulsivity, but so is the <em>century</em> he spent constantly feeling like a sack of dirty ice barely keeping itself from seeping into the ground.</p>
<p>But there are rules to it. Or not rules, so much as <em>trends,</em> things the Master has learned to expect. There are constants, like the anger and fear, but they shift.</p>
<p>When the world is vivid and his for the taking, the fury is a justified rage for people who don’t see what he sees, the pieces of the universe that get in his way, and the fear is always, <em>always</em> a sort of preemptive anxiety because he knows something is coming, something’s always coming.</p>
<p>When the Master is trapped in his own head, when <em>nothing</em> truly matters in the end (and it’s an end that will never come), anger is bitterness. It is <em>betrayal,</em> it’s agony and pain and more often than not it’s the only thing he can feel. The fear is so pervasive, so all-encompassing and insurmountable that it’s one more reason to just fucking die.</p>
<p>Some things can prompt a change, or have a chance to do it. Big emotions, for one, which means seeing the Doctor is an almost guaranteed swing. It’s a little contagious, too. If he’s around someone miserable, the Master might turn miserable too, and if he’s around a bouncing gleeful monster (see: the Doctor), he’s likely to spiral up into a matching chaotic energy.</p>
<p>The change is most commonly this: the thin chisel of a thought, poking into his mind and body, and then hammered home, shattering whatever was there before.</p>
<p>Sometimes the shards that remain are kindling, fuel for the fire and drive and <em>passion,</em> for movement, for wrath and power and <em>glory.</em></p>
<p>But now they’re glass. Empty stained glass he was <em>maybe</em> going to make a project, possibly see what it could become, now broken and jagged and cutting into him, slice by tiny slice.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“All you have to do is ask about the Matrix microbes thing,” Jack says. “Whatever else she’s got planned can wait, ask for a rain check and-”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” the Master says. Why did he go back to this name, <em>why</em> does he <em>still</em> trap himself in the young arrogance and naive ambition that churned through Koschei Oakdown so very long ago. But he doesn’t know what else he would be. Frayed, shattered, torn and shredded, but he is - or <em>wants</em> to be, at least - more than that.</p>
<p>Besides, he has a reputation to maintain.</p>
<p>What doesn’t help that reputation is the fact he’s in a fetal position on the floor of his TARDIS console room, staring at the doors that lead to the time vortex right now.</p>
<p>“I liked Australia,” he, the Master, says. Jack, crouched a few arm lengths away but still in view, simply nods and listens. “The Outback, I mean. It was a bit like Gallifrey, all that orange-red but none of the stuffy pretentious Time Lords. Quiet and peace if I wanted it, or I could phase into any city for a good time. Fun sense of humor, everything’s trying to kill humans. Can’t get much better, on Earth.”</p>
<p>“Does sound like your kind of place,” Jack says with a quirk of a smile. It makes the Master want to lash out and scream <em>you don’t know me</em> but that takes more energy than he’s got. “Hey, have you ever considered medication?”</p>
<p>“Fuck off,” he mutters.</p>
<p>Unbothered, Jack shrugs. “Just a reminder that you could try to actually solve the problem instead of doing whatever you want to call this. I mean, you <em>do</em> know you’re not okay, right?”</p>
<p>The thing that’s difficult about sitting up isn’t the physical action, it’s <em>starting</em> the action. Getting his limbs to obey is the tricky bit. He’s not even master of his own body, and the Master grits his teeth, fighting his way up. “No no no, I’m fine, not a <em>thing</em> wrong with me.”</p>
<p>Jack’s eye roll is so overdramatic it rotates his entire head. “Look, this is <em>brainstorming,</em> alright? You’re not exactly looking like prime dating material right now.”</p>
<p>“You’d date me,” the Master counters.</p>
<p>“I would <em>not</em> date you. I do have standards,” Jack says. “Yeah, the bar is low, but you still don’t reach it.”</p>
<p>The Master gives him sad puppy dog eyes. “The bar’s just <em>single,</em> isn’t it.”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Jack says, but he’s not even bothering to hold back laughter. “And the <em>point</em> is getting in and out of this with minimal impact.”</p>
<p>From maximum carnage to minimal impact. How far he’s fallen.</p>
<p>“The agreement was the Doctor would help me if I answer some questions,” the Master says, and gets to his feet, even if every part of his body wants to just sag right back down. “I don’t know how many, I don’t know the topic, I don’t know what she’s expecting.” He sighs, and leans his weight against the TARDIS console. “I’ll get her to go first, then I can look all sad and upset so she’ll help me.”</p>
<p><em>“Or,</em> you ask her to wait on the questions, explain the situation, and then see if she’ll help,” Jack says.</p>
<p>“Going into any discussion with the Doctor without collateral is just <em>asking</em> to lose. There’s a reason I’ve spent so much time planting bombs around London over the years, I can just tell her to listen or I’ll blow up a daycare or something. And if I <em>don’t</em> have a bomb or other threat, the Doctor laughs at me and runs away without a second thought.”</p>
<p>Jack’s face twists in an odd way. “She does?”</p>
<p>The Master just nods, and adjusts the dampeners. There’s no way he is getting rid of the blow-up plastic chair, but it does get obnoxious when the thing starts sliding around during turbulence.</p>
<p>“The Doctor seems kind of interested in talking to you even if there’s not a bomb,” Jack says, hesitating every few syllables like he’s prodding at ice on top of a frozen lake, seeing if it’ll break and drown him or not. When the Master doesn’t bludgeon him to death again, that seems to count as <em>safe.</em> “Like, <em>really</em> interested. Have you ever thought the Doctor might keep running away <em>because</em> you put a bomb in a daycare?”</p>
<p>That <em>is</em> a fair point.</p>
<p>Well. There’s other options. “I suppose I could poison her and make sure I have the only antidote, maybe,” the Master says, and sends his TARDIS towards Bantellon. Except poison is a <em>terrible</em> idea, he’s stupid, that’s <em>stupid.</em> Their bodies can cleanse most poisons, and if it’s something they can’t cleanse, she would <em>absolutely </em>let herself die of poison purely out of spite.</p>
<p><em>“Or,</em> you just <em>talk to her,”</em> Jack says.</p>
<p>There’s no point trying to explain. The Master looks down at his console, at the delicate readings on industrial-strength equipment he could probably bash with a hammer for hours without anything breaking, and says, “Have you ever tried to have an honest, serious conversation with the Doctor?”</p>
<p>It takes a moment, but Jack says, “I’ve seen him try to talk to you-”</p>
<p>“When I held the Earth hostage, or had her in a stasis field, or I was a literal captive audience with m - Missy locked up for whatever sanctimonious monologue the Doctor cooked up for that <em>year,</em> and even that wasn’t talking, that was rehabilitating,” he says, and runs a hand through his hair. And then he tugs on his hair, feels <em>something.</em> Controls something. It’s real. “If I don’t dodge anything serious, she runs.”</p>
<p><em>“What?</em> Do you live in an alternate reality and just phase into this one sometimes?” Jack asks, incredulous. “Are you serious? I’ve seen you together!”</p>
<p>The Master turns to glare at him, but Jack is looking at him like <em>he’s</em> the freak and the Master doesn’t like that. One bit. It makes something between his hearts tighten.</p>
<p>It must be a sign of symbiosis, how his TARDIS lands right when the Master feels ready to explode in who knows what direction. Kill Jack again, scream until he can’t breathe, drop back onto the floor, all those fun reaction roulette options. Now, he can say, “Get out.”</p>
<p>Instead of being smart enough to leave, Jack frowns. “What else do you-”</p>
<p><em>“Go!” </em>the Master snarls at him, and apparently the roulette wheel of his emotions has landed on fury because he adds a <em>push</em> of telepathic terror as he stalks towards Jack with every intent of saying <em>fuck it</em> to the horrifying sensation of touching Jack, just for the privilege of strangling the freak to death. Dislocate his shoulders, shove him down, stomp his skull in and wipe the gore off his shoes with that stupid coat and <em>burn it,</em> grab plyers for when he gasps back to life because he doesn’t have to <em>kill</em> Jack, does he. That’s the easy way. The temporary way to hurt him.</p>
<p>And right now, he doesn’t want <em>temporary.</em></p>
<p>Immortal fact of existence or not, Jack is still human enough that the psychic influence and that little survival-focused bunny in his head <em>forces</em> Jack to backpedal his way out of the Master’s TARDIS.</p>
<p>It’s <em>betrayal.</em> Why did he let the freak sit around with him for so long, why didn’t he kick Jack into the vortex hours ago, leave him back in the ancient past with the remnants of Tecteun, see how the few billion years treat him as he takes the slow path. See what a billion <em>fucking</em> years does to something so vain. Fun doesn’t mean trustworthy, doesn’t mean Jack’s not waiting to sabotage him or mock him or stab him in - no. It’s not like he cares. He doesn’t.</p>
<p>He doesn’t.</p>
<p>The Master counts down the remaining minutes, and then seconds, and is deliberately <em>almost</em> 3 minutes late when he steps out - he wants to be an asshole, but not start a war.</p>
<p>He’s barely stepped foot out of his TARDIS (pristine wood floor, small but elegant side hallway in a large echoing building with red-draped windows, high ceiling painted in the usual geometric style of Bantellon, murmurs and delicate music around the corner, four bathrooms lining the hallway with the Master’s TARDIS creating a fifth, Out of Order, red light above the door, the Doctor’s eyesore TARDIS standing at the end of the hallway directly next to him) when he sees the Doctor and blurts out, “What <em>happened</em> to you?”</p>
<p>Because she is in a dress. It’s a strapless puffy-skirt kind of dress, blue with star-like sparkles, shorter in the front than the back. She has flats on instead of the usual boots, and her hair is half up, sort of...wavy, with more sparkles. And there’s makeup. And more jewelry. And he tries to not examine more than the presence of these things, because he is very angry.</p>
<p>The Doctor looks very feminine, and pretty, and <em>extremely</em> uncomfortable.</p>
<p>“Do you want to change?” he asks, trying to not be furious someone made her wear all of this shit (woman does not mean <em>feminine)</em>. But the Doctor clenches her jaw in a familiar determination, so the Master sighs and holds up a hand before she gets going. Before she can even start. <em>“Fine,</em> just give me a second.”</p>
<p>The Master walks back into his TARDIS, and heads straight for the wardrobe.</p>
<p>He’s tempted to put on an <em>even floofier</em> dress, tell gender to fuck off and die, but she seemed determined to wear it and that’s - it’s not like he wants to <em>help,</em> it’s more he remembers how it felt to just...practice. Not quite an experiment, more a test run.</p>
<p>And maybe that’s why she chose Bantellon. They wouldn’t give a shit if the Master walked out in a minidress and stiletto heels so long as he behaved with proper decorum for the ensemble. So it’s easier for the Doctor to try out femininity if he puts on boring stereotypical masculine clothing. Probably. So he puts - <em>shit,</em> he can’t wear boring bland things if he wants to keep the Doctor at least a little less angry and bitter. And he can’t just stand around trying things on and taking them off and putting other things on, he’s got <em>limited time,</em> to say the least. So. It can’t look like a disguise and it can’t remind her of <em>other selves</em> and he lets his forehead thunk against an armoire with a groan.</p>
<p>Is he supposed to match? Is this a matching sort of thing? Or - match, but not <em>match-</em>match. But not like his exploding airplane tuxedo. But not a <em>boring</em> tuxedo because he can’t be boring. So no tuxedo. A suit, but not blue. Can’t outdo her, she put too much effort into the outfit, so black but with a subtle pattern. Plaid looks too much like he made no effort, floral clashes, pinstripes is <em>very very not okay,</em> paisley works. Subtle blue and purple, on black. Velvety, for his own...for because he says so. Add a waistcoat, and bland tie because no bowties - <em>why</em> do they have so much baggage with <em>clothing</em> - dark shirt, there. Plan in place. He opens a different closet, which has multiple versions of his thought-up ensemble, and he picks the Earth 2020-iest one. It fits perfectly, because that’s what TARDISes do when they love you.</p>
<p>Belt, socks, dress shoes, done. Hair gets lightly finger-combed, otherwise it would look too much like he cares.</p>
<p>When he gets back out of his TARDIS, it’s to see that both Yaz and Graham are now standing where the Doctor was, both dressed formally. Great. Fantastic.</p>
<p>“Should Time Lords just not be allowed to dress themselves?” Yaz comments, and it’s a joke, it is <em>clearly</em> a joke, but the Master would like to shrink her into a teeny tiny little doll and stomp on it for a good two or three hours. It must show on his face - unsurprising; he’s not exactly trying to hide it - because Yaz puts her hands up. “Alright, alright. Probably didn’t lighten the mood with that. Sorry. You look nice!”</p>
<p>“It’s the best I could do with <em>no notice whatsoever,”</em> he snaps, particularly because they both look nice, and no doubt <em>they</em> had time to really try out clothes and think up multiple ensembles. They very clearly had time. Lots of time. Probably seven hours of time. Yaz’s hair is done up in intricate braids that must have taken at <em>least</em> an hour, no matter how talented she may be. “How long ago did the Doctor come up with this plan?”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Graham says, and gives the Master a nice little smile. It’s earnest, and warm, and makes the Master want to punch his teeth out but in a different way than Yaz’s comment. “She’s just around the corner, and you look great. Really, you do. Come to think of it, <em>is</em> there some sort of Time Lord dress code? Something everyone always wore?”</p>
<p>“Everyone wore red, like the blood on their hands,” the Master says, and walks towards the previously mentioned corner before the humans can try to <em>‘help’</em> again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Doubt & Dedication</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were plenty of clues, but it’s still surprising to walk out of the side-hall and see the intricate crystalline atrium of the Grand Bantellon Opera Hall. Ryan, who is back in his Vore Tuxedo, and Jack, who is still in his old military coat, sit at a bistro-like table with six chairs. The Doctor stands next to them with her feet shoulder-width apart, staring down at her skirt with a delicate sort of glee as she swishes the fabric back and forth.</p>
<p>“Is there a reason you decided asking for a discussion means we should get arrested in a pretentious theater?” the Master asks, and can’t help but enjoy the reactions to his outfit - Ryan’s horror, Jack’s intense confusion, the Doctor’s bright beaming smile because he’s playing along. And it is truly <em>exhausting,</em> but the Master fully intends to keep playing whatever her game is. “You look very girly, it’s a nice dress.”</p>
<p>It is almost <em>instantaneous</em> when the Doctor says, “Thanks! Look, it’s got pockets!” and shoves her hands down into what must be absolutely <em>massive</em> pockets, reaching all the way to her forearms. She yanks her hands back out with all the grace of declogging a drain. “You look pretty too! But yeah, tried makeup. I put on some blush, and some eyeshadow too, see?”</p>
<p>The Doctor shuts her eyes, and points towards her very blue eyelids.</p>
<p>It’s...familiar.</p>
<p>“Isn’t that mine?” the Master asks, and it’s unfair how huge her eyes look when they open, completely unrepentant. “Missy’s, I mean.”</p>
<p>“Yep, and why do you keep doing that?” she asks. “Third person-ing Missy, like it’s not you. All the <em>I’m not Missy,</em> I’d been taking that as being mad about the Vault, but saying Missy’s a different person about <em>owning eyeshadow?”</em></p>
<p>“Jumping right into the questions, then,” the Master says, and when the Doctor simply shrugs, hands planting on her waist, he turns towards the human and human-ish-thing called Jack. “Leave.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got your tickets? Drink vouchers? Diplomatic immunity papers?” the Doctor asks them, and the two leave the small seating area with a startling level of obedience. Jack is clearly trying to gesture <em>something</em> towards the Master while they leave, which he deliberately ignores. “Try to behave! We’ll catch up at intermission at the absolute latest, promise!”</p>
<p>The Master sits in one of the chairs, and looks out at the atrium full of impeccably dressed people. There’s no real requirements for actual clothing design - after all, some people’s art is clothing design or modeling. No, it’s about the way people wearing dresses must spread their skirt out before sitting, must cross their ankles, must curtsey instead of bow. It means there’s everything from spike-studded goth leather dresses to so many frilly layers of lace that the person beneath looks like a puffed-up dandelion, and every single one of them takes the exact same length of stride, at the same speed. The same impeccable courtesy shown to the same people, constantly.</p>
<p>The Doctor sits in the chair directly next to him, and knocks her leg against his for a brief moment. “I’ll change the question a little, that might make it easier, okay?”</p>
<p>“The answer is <em>because I’m not Missy,”</em> he says.</p>
<p>“No it’s not,” the Doctor says, and turns her chair to face him instead of the table. “I’ve been wondering, for a long time now. What happened? Why did you regenerate, how did you die?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to tell the Doctor, but answering questions lead to success with his Vashta Nerada Avoidance Scheme, so he sighs and says, “Missy-”</p>
<p>
  <em>“You.”</em>
</p>
<p>“No. If I don’t differentiate right now, you’re going to misunderstand,” the Master says, and keeps his eyes on the atrium and not the Doctor sitting close enough that he can feel her body heat. “Because Missy and Saxon killed each other and that’s not...with <em>your</em> way of talking about it, that turns into something.”</p>
<p>The Doctor’s voice is choked up, at least, when she asks, “Why?”</p>
<p>“They disagreed.”</p>
<p>“No. No, you used to be <em>terrified</em> of dying, you wouldn’t do that from just a disagreement,” the Doctor says, because she always knows best, doesn’t she. “Did you - did <em>Saxon-”</em></p>
<p>“Missy killed him first, just a nice neat knife in the back - very smooth stab, in and out, bloodloss perfectly measured so he could get back to our TARDIS to regenerate. And a shiny new Missy would blame the memory loss on regeneration sickness instead of contact with another self.” He sighs. “Saxon wasn’t even mad, at first. That’s how good she was.”</p>
<p>“Then why did he kill you - or, kill Missy.” The Doctor takes a breath. “Alright, I can see how that helps.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to tell her. He doesn’t. He <em>can’t.</em></p>
<p>The Master holds a hand out towards the Doctor. “Easier to show you.”</p>
<p>It says quite a lot of things when the Doctor simply takes his hand, palm sweaty, and doesn’t even bother with a polite <em>contact</em> before stepping into his mind. She doesn’t fight it when he directs their minds towards a specific memory, either.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>----</p>
<p>Night in the forest is a deep, dark blue. The colony ship is quieter than a planet in some ways, infinitely louder in others, and in the moment he brings the Doctor into, the loudest thing is Missy’s short yet determined steps in the underbrush, and Saxon’s pained breathing.</p>
<p>“Missy, seriously. Why?” Saxon asks from where he sits crumpled and pained in the elevator doorway.</p>
<p>“Oh, because he’s right. Because it’s time to stand with him. It’s where we’ve always been going, and it’s happening, now, today. It’s time to stand with the Doctor.”</p>
<p>Missy turns, grabs her umbrella as Saxon says, “No.” As Saxon snarls, <em>“Never.”</em> Missy simply looks over her shoulder, not remotely swayed, and Saxon shouts, “Missy! I will <em>never</em> stand with the Doctor!”</p>
<p>“Yes, my dear, you will,” Missy says, and Saxon tears his laser screwdriver out of his jacket and blasts her with <em>everything,</em> every single charge and backup charge, and for a moment Missy is nothing but a skeleton within a golden silhouette.</p>
<p>Saxon watches her fall to the ground and says, “Don’t bother trying to regenerate. You got the full blast.”</p>
<p>And Missy laughs.</p>
<p>And Saxon laughs.</p>
<p>They laugh <em>together,</em> because this is who they are. “You see, Missy, <em>this</em> is where we’ve always been going. <em>This</em> is our <em>perfect</em> ending. <em>We shoot ourselves in the back.”</em></p>
<p>With weak, high-pitched laughter, Missy falls to the forest floor. Saxon shuts the elevator doors, and his laughter is audible in the elevator shaft for a good few moments. But Missy didn’t die immediately, and he remembers there was the stupid, foolish, lovestruck, <em>idiotic</em> hope that the Doctor would come, that she could still die with him, still take his hand, even if it was in a different circumstance. It was all she’d wanted. She’d wanted to stand with the Doctor and now all she wanted, <em>all she wanted</em> was him to be there, love her, die with her, together together <em>together, we could go together, you and me-</em></p>
<p>He feels the Doctor drop out of his mind barely a heartbeat away from when Missy’s both stop.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Doctor drops out of his mind, and climbs directly into his lap. Someone blows a whistle, because it’s Bantellon, and the Doctor throws her arms around his shoulders, buries her face against his neck, and damn near sobs, “Missy.”</p>
<p>“I’m not Missy,” he says very, very quickly, hearts beating frantically for many many reasons. “I’m not.”</p>
<p><em>“Missy,</em> I don’t - I’m so late,” the Doctor says. “I didn’t even know.”</p>
<p><em>“Exactly,</em> and it’s over, and I’m not Missy. She’s <em>dead,”</em> he says. “It’s over. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back.”</p>
<p>The Doctor lifts her head to press a kiss to his cheek, fingers almost frantically running through his hair. “Thank you, Missy. <em>Thank you.”</em></p>
<p>He expected the Doctor’s bleak near-stereotypical <em>I’m so, so sorry.</em> And she never should’ve picked Bantellon, <em>why</em> did she pick Bantellon, the police are coming because the Doctor is breaking <em>hundreds</em> of rules. They’re not exactly big on PDA here. But the Doctor isn’t going anywhere, even when there’s more whistles going off.</p>
<p>So the Master shoves her off, and stands up before she can even try to re-engage. The whistles stop, hilariously. Violence earns nothing but side-eyed voyeurism, while affection gets people jail time. And the Doctor looks hurt, but also ready to cling like a starving octopus, so the Master heads back to the hall they’re parked in.</p>
<p>Getting shoved has done nothing to the Doctor’s train of thought, though. Even while they walk, even before they’re out of eyeshot, she says, “If I’d known, nothing could have-”</p>
<p>“It’s <em>done,</em> it’s over, she’s <em>gone,</em> and it didn’t matter. I’m not Missy. I’m not. She was different, she was…” <em>Wrong,</em> is what he means to say. A fool. Weak.</p>
<p>She was allowed to be, at the end.</p>
<p>Missy was allowed to be <em>so many things.</em></p>
<p>He can’t be what she was, and at the start of this life, he <em>tried.</em> He truly tried. All that work, all that <em>control,</em> vanished in an explosion of stolen golden power. <em>Artron</em> energy. Disgusting. And then what little he <em>did</em> retain was scrubbed away against the Matrix and the truth, dragged over a washboard of pain.</p>
<p>“It was different, being her,” the Master says.</p>
<p>The Doctor presses their foreheads together, a sad but affectionate smile on her lips. “You were <em>short?”</em></p>
<p>He’s always short. Always has been, always thought he’d <em>stay</em> the shorter one between them. It’s just one more way the balance is off this time.</p>
<p>He also used to be the one who moved first, impatient in the least respectable ways. But now it’s the Doctor who backs him against a wall, something thick and heavy in her eyes.</p>
<p>“At least you’re stuck down here with me for once,” he says. It’s an attempt at snark, albeit a feeble one. Instead, he sounds sincere to the point of almost ominous. And it’s a <em>stupid</em> thing to do, but he stays right where the Doctor put him when he asks, “If I’d made it back to you, what would’ve happened?”</p>
<p>She brushes fingers through his hair. “We could still find out.”</p>
<p>Over and over and <em>over</em> he has to say it. The words sear his tongue and throat and eyes when he says, bitter and burned out, “I’m not Missy anymore.”</p>
<p>“It’s not Missy I want,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p>He loathes how gently her lips press against his, how she kisses him like the slightest bit of pressure might be enough to make him shatter. The kiss is brief, too. It’s a whisper of contact between them, a wisp of smoke between them that would be so easy to pretend was never there to begin with.</p>
<p>When she pulls back with an uncertain vulnerability in her eyes, the Master, sublimely unimpressed, asks, “Are you done?”</p>
<p>“With...?”</p>
<p>“Whatever squishy soft little fantasy you’ve cooked up in your head,” he says. “Where I say <em>oh, Doctor, please take me away</em> and you do just that, rehabilitating me until I sit at your feet, waiting for your attention, adoring and reliant for eternity.”</p>
<p>“That’s awfully descriptive for a fantasy you’ve never had,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p>He grits his teeth and does <em>not</em> strangle her. Not <em>yet,</em> at least. “You clearly put a lot of work into this outfit, do you <em>really</em> want to ruin it in a fight?”</p>
<p>“Kinda hoping we’d ruin it in a different way,” she says, and he can’t even begin to tell if that was a deliberate sexual innuendo or not. For all he knows, she might have planned a sewer-cleaning party. Or maybe that’s part of the show. The Doctor steps back, only to grab the Master’s hand and start pulling him out to the atrium again. “Come on, I did pick this place for a reason.”</p>
<p>The theater is built of steel and silver, a truly bizarre combination of futuristic angles covered in swirls reminiscent of tides and seashells. Maybe a complex cloud pattern. To the Master, it implies that one person was the architect, one person was the builder, and one was in charge of the interior design. Another person was probably in charge of the curtain drawn across the stage, a complex forest with tiny white and silver leaves fluttering in the air conditioning. The way it all not-quite-clashes borders on charming.</p>
<p>Box seating isn’t always the best for a view, but it <em>is,</em> thankfully, better for a private conversation. The Doctor doesn’t drop his hand until they’re in the little alcove she seems to have arranged for them. Or claimed was reserved for her. Or blackmailed people into giving her. Time Lords rarely use money, no matter where they go.</p>
<p>They’re barely through the curtain and into the theater itself before a woman comes through behind them with bright eyes and papers in her hand, curtseys, and says, “We’re honored to have you here today, my lady, your contribution to-”</p>
<p>“Oh no no, nooo, that’s <em>fine,</em> no need to even mention it! I’m always happy to help! It’s what I do, after all,” the Doctor says quickly, and lets out an awkward laugh before she shoos the woman out with a, “Thanks very much, we’ll come out and ask if we need something.”</p>
<p>“Of course, my lady,” the woman says, but still hands over the papers - programs. How...quaint. “I’ll just be <em>right there,</em> just through-”</p>
<p>“Who do you think she is?” the Master interrupts.</p>
<p>The woman’s eyes go <em>even wider,</em> to the point the Master wonders if the native species of Bantellon is a little more interesting than he thought. “Why, she’s the Lady President, great patron of the arts!”</p>
<p>Well, how unexpected. It’s only a <em>half</em> lie.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, it makes the choice of planet even more confusing. Showing up as a high-ranking diplomat means the Doctor and probably everyone in her party is damn near untouchable with all the etiquette problems. So why?</p>
<p>
  <em>Why Bantellon?</em>
</p>
<p>With a tight irritated smile towards the Master, the Lady President sends their little helper back out of the box. When he looks at the program, it’s for a show called <em>Doubt &amp; Dedication,</em> which isn’t even a little bit familiar.</p>
<p>The Master drops into his seat and asks her, with every bit of confusion he genuinely feels, “Why did you choose Bantellon for this?”</p>
<p>“Tell me your business proposal idea first,” the Doctor says, and has absolutely no idea how to sit down in a dress. It bunches up underneath her, even leaves a poof between her back and the seat. She crosses her legs, and he can see the fabric trapped between.</p>
<p>He sighs, and says, “You’re going to ruin the dress, you have to spread the skirt out when you sit. It’s not like the old baggy wrinkle-free robes.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” The Doctor immediately looks so <em>stricken,</em> pained and confused and frustrated. This must be what sympathy feels like, because he remembers ruining dresses. Very pretty dresses. So he stands up, and holds out a hand, pulling her back to her feet when she takes it.</p>
<p>“Hold both sides - not <em>tight,</em> just hold it, just enough to be sure you’re not getting fabric bunched up under you,” the Master says, and drops her hand. The Doctor carefully obeys, face scrunched up in concentration. “Alright, now sit.” She does, head turned back to very intently check if the chair is moving or not. “Better. And if you’re crossing your legs, do it <em>under</em> the fabric, like it’s a blanket, not with the skirt between your thighs.”</p>
<p>Experimentally, she does.</p>
<p>It looks <em>so</em> much better.</p>
<p>“Nobody told me I was doing it wrong,” the Doctor says, and he doesn’t know if she’s frowning at her pets or the idea of frowning at doing something wrong. “There’s so many little <em>things,</em> how am I supposed to know all of them?”</p>
<p>“Time, practice, same as anything else,” the Master says with a shrug, and sits back down. “I was Missy for a good few hundred years before meeting you, and I was a mess at the start. But you don’t <em>need</em> to be feminine, Doctor. You don’t need to do all of this.”</p>
<p>“I know, I just want to see how it feels,” she says, and starts plucking at the fabric of her skirt. “It’s not bad! I do like the spinning part, where the skirt flies out, that’s fun. Not so fond of the top, but I wanted to try something really really new - go <em>big</em> for an experiment, you know?” He nods. “And it’s...well, I wanted to do this experiment with someone who knows what it feels like.”</p>
<p>“And <em>that’s</em> why you picked Bantellon? People would say you’re doing it wrong?”</p>
<p>The Doctor gives him a <em>look,</em> both amused and coy. “I’m not giving you that answer until <em>you</em> tell me what you want.” When the Master doesn’t immediately reply, she sighs. “Are you asking me to conquer the universe again?”</p>
<p>“I want to put my Matrix into the Library, after the Vashta Nerada infested,” the Master says.</p>
<p>He looks out at the rest of the theater instead of watching what crosses the Doctor’s face in the silence between them. As hard as he looks, Jack and her pets are nowhere to be seen, which is...concerning. One more point in the <em>picked Bantellon to murder me</em> column. She did pick a time very close to when the planet blew itself up. Maybe she’ll imprison him and just let history do the dirty work. That seems very <em>her.</em></p>
<p>But the Doctor says, “Are you talking about an upload, or an overwrite?”</p>
<p>“Upload, and no, destroying River Song is <em>not</em> the goal,” he says, and makes the mistake of looking at her. Eyes shut, hands bunched in the fabric of her dress, brow furrowed, she looks distraught and he hates it. “There’s enough room for the Matrix to be another addition. The Library was designed to receive massive data uploads for millennia. It’d be one large lump of data and then, well. Can’t get a better guard dog than billions of Vashta Nerada, can you?”</p>
<p>“With that many Time Lords, it’d turn the data core into a digital Gallifrey,” the Doctor says. <em>Accuses,</em> since deep down they both loathe the place and it’s not something to inflict on a loved one.</p>
<p>He’s too exhausted to turn this into a fight, so the Master cuts straight to the best bleeding heart argument he’s got. “Despite never meeting River, I have a lurking suspicion she can handle herself. <em>And</em> them. Might even enjoy some fresh blood.” Ah, there’s the quirk to her lips, the fond haze of memories. What a predictable sap. “All I’m asking is you get me to the core interface. Just drop me off as close as possible, bring some torches to flash into the dark, and that’s it. That is the extent of my request.”</p>
<p>The Doctor sighs, and shifts, legs shoulder-width apart as she leans forward to put her elbows on her knees. She looks down, eyes fixed on the floor when she says, “Can I trust you to keep her safe?”</p>
<p>“Never have I ever killed any of your other spouses,” the Master says. At first he kept them off limits because he didn’t want to look desperate, and didn’t want to upset the Doctor <em>too</em> much. Now, hands off is just an old habit that happens to give him an excuse to never meet them and think <em>ah yes, yet another person with many personality aspects similar to my own</em>.</p>
<p>“Which I know. Believe me, I know,” the Doctor says in a way that makes him wonder if that’s disappointment. “But I said safe, not safe from <em>you.”</em></p>
<p>With a roll of his eyes, the Master says, “Stop being sentimental, Doctor, she’s already dead. Everyone involved in this is already dead, except us, and even then I’m arguable. Will you help or not?”</p>
<p>The lights fade down, and brighten again. It happens twice, three times, and then people <em>really</em> start coming into the theater. It’s amazing how some signals are ancient and universal. Civilization after civilization creates so many different things, but the dimming and brightening of lights is an ever-constant sign of <em>the show starts soon.</em></p>
<p>It means absolutely nothing to the Doctor, who doesn’t even glance towards the stage. “I’ll help, but I’m not going to just phase in and wait to see how it goes.”</p>
<p>“If you like. It’s your life to lose,” he says, because he never expected otherwise. Not really. <em>Waiting</em> isn’t the Doctor’s idea of fun. And sometimes it’s not the Master’s idea of fun either, so he turns to look the Doctor in the eye. “Now. Bantellon. Why?”</p>
<p>Her fingers drum against the arms of her chair, clearly trying to decide what to say, mouth opening and then closing again. It happens a few times, and then she grabs onto her theater program, not quite strangling it. “Well, a bit before you texted, I got a - you know what, we’ll get back to that part. So, why Bantellon? <em>Art,</em> that’s why! We’re here for the play!”</p>
<p>“I say I want to talk, and you decide going to a play is the best option?” he asks, and tries to not be indignant about it. And fails. “You decided we should <em>talk</em> in a <em>theater?”</em></p>
<p>“No no no, <em>no,</em> this isn’t talking, this is <em>communicating,”</em> the Doctor insists. “It seems like every time we talk it ends in disaster, so I thought, what if <em>we</em> aren’t talking? Because Mar - uh, <em>my friend</em> said-”</p>
<p>“Martha Jones recorded our conversation, and sent it to you,” he says.</p>
<p>Because of course she did. He remembers Martha rummaging around in her bag, how very...<em>reporter-y</em> the conversation became. More interview than discussion. And that’s the <em>second</em> time he’s been bested by recording devices.</p>
<p>The Doctor shrugs, but doesn’t deny it. “Point is, communication is key to a good relationship and we’re terrible at it, so I found a workaround.”</p>
<p>Suspicious, the Master finally looks at the <em>Doubt &amp; Dedication</em> program more closely. The paper quality is, of course impeccable, as is the calligraphy, and when he opens to the next page in the pamphlet, ah, there it is. She picked Bantellon because for some reason, she thinks it’s the best place for cooking up a show with two leading roles: <em>Eta,</em> and <em>Kos.</em> The setting is listed as The Academy, and also House Ashfall (which is a <em>lot</em> better than Oakdown, he’ll admit that easily enough), and then The Ship. A lot of The Ship. And The Planet. Additional supporting characters include Eta’s Brother, Kos’s Father, and a few other names he doesn’t bother translating into their reality. No doubt every character will come bouncing on-stage as a creepy doll version of a real person.</p>
<p>“I picked Bantellon because I know it blows itself up in a few days, a few <em>hours</em> really, so no need to worry about word spreading!” the Doctor says very quickly. “You’re not looking happy about this-”</p>
<p><em>“Shocking,”</em> he hisses at her.</p>
<p>“Just watch it. All you have to do is watch, alright?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Every character is a disquieting echo of Koschei’s life, albeit played by adults even at the start, and he hates how fascinating the entire thing is. It’s all from the Doctor’s point of view, very <em>blatantly,</em> and he doesn’t know how she accomplished this in seven hours. Point is, a few things about her point of view become obvious almost immediately.</p>
<p>The immediate give-away is the costuming, because in reality, they were in uniforms and everyone was stuck wearing the same exact outfit(s) for years and years. But no, little not-Theta is a visibly impoverished thing, his brother only slightly better off when not-Brax shows up to drop not-Theta off, highly dramatized holes in their clothing as the two are looked down on with disdain by the rest of the cast.</p>
<p>“I didn’t pick costumes,” the Doctor whispers at him, bare seconds after the idiot walks on stage.</p>
<p>He doesn’t bother doing more than a disdainful eyeroll at the Doctor, and holds a hand out. It takes a moment, but the Doctor takes it, and the Master gives her a brusque <em>contact</em> before he says, not even waiting for the polite but jumbled reply as the Doctor flails trying to keep things orderly between them, <em>“Don’t talk during the show, dear, it makes you look gauche. And gauche is a criminal offense here.”</em></p>
<p>The physical contact isn’t actually needed and they both know it.</p>
<p>They hold hands anyway.</p>
<p>A near-infinite number of theater styles exist on Bantellon, and the Doctor’s selected version is the format which has always reminded the Master of reality TV, where the show will freeze and cut to a character talking about events. Barely five minutes of Intro To The Academy later, not-Theta is starting a monologue about fear and curiosity and not belonging but being determined to be a <em>Sea</em> Lord to make <em>House Breathmound</em> proud.</p>
<p>Yes, it’s all very subtle. Like cracking an egg via hydraulic press.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, when not-Koschei shows up, his outfit has jewels sewn into it.</p>
<p>He watches initiation, which the play doesn’t bother trying to explain other than not-Theta’s little aside about the terror of seeing the vastness and the power of the ocean, and then not-Theta runs, and in this version, in the Doctor’s perspective, he runs until he hears someone begging for help, hidden in a corner.</p>
<p>Koschei’s recollection doesn’t include the way not-Koschei says <em>please please please please, please make it stop.</em> The words aren’t directed at anyone, but not-Theta slinks over, and not-Koschei clings to him the second not-Theta opens his arms. The scene doesn’t need to be this long. It doesn’t.</p>
<p>Maybe it would be easier to watch if the characters were eight years old. It would seem less...intimate.</p>
<p>Less pitiful, too.</p>
<p>Whatever the Doctor is trying to tell him with this, it’s a waste of their time, since he was <em>there</em> when they were growing up, yes, a shocking fact. The play highlights Theta’s insecurities, which could be communicated via the spoken sentence <em>I was insecure when we were younger.</em> But no, nope, they’re going to sit through a multiple act play that makes the Master both mortified and exhausted.</p>
<p>At least not-Koschei never has any little aside monologues. To the point of it being conspicuous.</p>
<p>They’re 30 agonizing minutes in when the Master gives up and says, still telepathically because he’s got <em>some</em> decency left, <em>“Show some mercy and just tell me what you want to say.”</em></p>
<p><em>“Really? I think it’s quite good,”</em> the Doctor says, because not-Theta is the main character and she always has to be the center of attention. He sends a bite of <em>irritation</em> her way. <em>“Give it time, alright? The point is showing you the other side of things!”</em></p>
<p>He doesn’t like how soft the play is. He doesn’t like the vulnerability of it, watching their sweet naive mirrors dance around each other and make the same idiotic decisions that seem even worse from the outside like this. He doesn’t like that there is an entire opera hall of people absorbing every detail, politely peeping through a long-shuttered window the Doctor decided to open wide and share with anyone interested in watching.</p>
<p><em>”How much time?”</em> he asks, because he’s not here to start a fight. He’s civil. He is being rational and civil.</p>
<p>It’s a futile sort of hope when the Doctor suggests, <em>“Intermission?”</em></p>
<p>Ugh. <em>“Ten minutes.”</em></p>
<p><em>“And then we’ll reassess,”</em> she agrees.</p>
<p>The ten minutes covers absolutely no new information, just like the rest of the play. Things are translated into something more human - not-Theta gets asked on a date instead of receiving a request to ask permission to have intentions - and the idiots are pining pining <em>pining</em> with not-Theta bemoaning class differences that made absolutely no difference in anything but not-Theta’s insecure little brain. At about nine minutes, not-Koschei blurts out a confession and he hates it. He hates it hates it <em>hates it,</em> and eleven minutes pass. Twelve.</p>
<p>“And I thought we’d be happy forever,” not-Theta’s next little reality TV cut-away begins, but there’s anxiety in it, pain in it, looking towards not-Koschei.</p>
<p>Not-Koschei’s smile isn’t just happy. There’s more than a bit of unhinged fire, because Bantellon produces very good actors, and apparently the Doctor told these people an awful lot about them, didn’t she.</p>
<p><em>“Just <strong>get</strong> to the <strong>point,”</strong></em> the Master snarls, fingers tightening to the point of pain, a vice around her palm. It’s unintentional. Instinctive.</p>
<p>Something in the Doctor’s expression shifts, softens. <em>“Okay. Okay, let’s step outside,”</em> she says, and stands, using their joined hands to tug him along and out the curtain, back into the hallway that provides access to the other boxes.</p>
<p>There’s a sound barrier in those curtains, so the Master drops her hand. Gets at least that little bit of distance between them. “Well?”</p>
<p>“I have two other questions,” the Doctor says, and takes a breath. “And they’re both best asked with, you know. Background perspective, a basic agreement to stand on, that sort of thing, and that’s what the play is, see? Because you’re not going to like them. You’re <em>really</em> not going to like them.”</p>
<p>“Doctor, at this moment, all I want is to not be dealing with you,” the Master says, and means it. The hallway is the same fans of silver, but the bench the Master sits down on is a lovely padded blue. He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “I want this to be done. I want to go back to my TARDIS and <em>leave.”</em></p>
<p>After a moment, the Doctor sits down next to him. She spreads her skirts out when she does it. “Would you ever stay?”</p>
<p>He tilts his head to the side and looks at her, bemused in spite of himself. “Do you really think yourself capable of just having me around? Your idea of <em>staying</em> would be keeping me under observation, fixing me, restraining me so I’m safe for your pets to be around. You’d be my keeper, not my...well. Not anything else.”</p>
<p>“I try to help you because <em>you need help,”</em> the Doctor bites out, oh my, clearly wounded. Her hands are going to tear that pretty skirt at this rate. “You came here to ask for help, and I’m happy to do it, no matter how dangerous of a plan you cooked up. Because it’s about helping you. Because I <em>care.</em> Can’t you see that? You’re asking me to risk the last breath of River’s existence and I’m going to do it, <em>for you!”</em></p>
<p>As if the Matrix has nothing to do with it. As if the Doctor’s control freak tendencies have no impact whatsoever, her need to save everyone because of the impotent pain left behind from everything...<em>everything…</em></p>
<p>It’s impossible to see how much they truly took away from her. How many lives she lost. How many people she’s loved.</p>
<p>He’s known what he’ll ask for ever since the Doctor accompanied him to Gallifrey, and he saw the grief in her eyes. So much sadness for people so deserving of what he did. Because she doesn’t understand the <em>why</em> of it, she never can and never will. It’s like her brain just can’t bend in the right direction to understand how badly they needed to be destroyed, and if she can <em>never</em> bend?</p>
<p>Never is a long, long time for them.</p>
<p>He watches the Doctor, and she looks at the Master like he’s every ghost that ever haunted her.</p>
<p>Gallifrey needs to be dead. It needs to <em>stay</em> dead.</p>
<p>The Master switches to Gallifreyan, and says, “Wife, I have a reque-hgrk.”</p>
<p>With panicked chaotic eyes, the Doctor shoves her hand into his mouth. Doesn’t cover it, doesn’t say stop, just jabs fingers into his mouth at a ludicrous speed, saying, <em>“No,</em> that’s - no. <em>No.</em> You don’t get to ask me to - <em>ow!”</em></p>
<p>In no timeline of events should it be a surprise when the Master bites her fingers and grabs at her wrist, trying to pull her hand out when the Doctor yelps in pain, but that just means she grabs the back of his head and keeps babbling <em>no no no, please, don’t.</em> For the second time of the night, the Doctor swings herself into his lap, but this time it’s not for creepy hugging, it’s for pushing his head back against the wall so he can’t pull back.</p>
<p>But the Master <em>really</em> wants to not have her fingers smashed into his mouth, so he glares, and shoves her back with as much strength as he’s got. Which is a <em>lot</em> when he’s desperate. She’s pushed back, but doesn’t let go of his head, meaning he hisses from the pain as he’s dragged along with her. The Doctor is off his lap and on the floor, and the Master’s barely kept his perch on the bench, practically bent in half, face hovering over where her skirts are scandalously bunched up for a place like Bantellon.</p>
<p>The most important thing is that when the Doctor fell, she kept a grip on his hair, but not on his mouth, so the Master says in Gallifreyan, as quickly as his mouth is capable of, <em>“WifeIhavearequest.”</em></p>
<p>the Master is also not following protocol like this, if the Doctor feels like being irritating she can call him out on it.</p>
<p>At almost the same moment, the Doctor, still catching herself, <em>screams,</em> “I offer a divorce!”</p>
<p>It translates more accurately to offering up a timeline where Koschei’s vow never happened, because it’s the word for a <em>full</em> divorce, all vows unwritten. A willingness to agree that in the progression of their lives, the curse of always doesn’t hover over them, because they choose to exist in a way where he didn’t do it. Where Theta and Koschei got married, yes, and presumably a mutual agreement of terminating their current situation goes along with it.</p>
<p>She’s panicking.</p>
<p>She’s offering a rewrite of this, an agreement of another series of events, a willful ignorance of Koschei’s vow, forever.</p>
<p>His mouth drops open in absolute...something. Something acidic and all-consuming, starting in his chest and climbing up his throat, like the gag reflex he was so proud of not having, back when he was new. When he was such a different person. When he was more Master than whatever this mess should be called.</p>
<p>He can only stare down at her.</p>
<p>“Please, <em>please,</em> don’t make me stop trying to help you,” the Doctor says. There are tears in her eyes, and she sits up, puts their faces at the same level. “I can’t do that. No matter how much you hate me, how angry we get, I <em>can’t.”</em></p>
<p>“Two thousand years,” the Master says. It’s all he <em>can</em> say. Over 2000 years of pain, and <em>this</em> is what earns him a divorce. She’s not even right about what he was going to request. But the concept of - it’s just - “I’ve burned planets, destroyed <em>entire civilizations,</em> killed your pets, killed <em>you,</em> and <em>this</em> is what does it? This is the breaking point? If I make you stop trying to <em>fix me,</em> it’s too much?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” the Doctor says.</p>
<p>The Master stands up, and he’s - he paces. But doesn’t. He wants to walk away and wants to sit back down and ends up just standing there, stepping in one direction and then another, useless. He’s useless. He hands her the torch for his own pyre, hops on top and dumps gasoline on himself by running a hand through his hair and asking, <em>“Why?”</em></p>
<p>“Because I love the person inside you, the man you <em>can</em> be,” the Doctor says, and stands up, nearly tripping over her own skirt but still pushing forward. “As Missy-”</p>
<p>
  <em>“Don’t.”</em>
</p>
<p>“Okay. It’s okay,” she says, and he <em>should</em> stop her when she reaches out, touches his face. Presses her forehead against his own. “I’m not trying to make you into my version of good. I’m trying to give you <em>control,</em> stop the moments of mindless violence that you can see now. You can <em>see it,</em> you know it’s happening, and you haven’t had that before.”</p>
<p>The Master can see what she means. He’s even wanted the same thing. But her thought process behind it, the sentiment, the truth, is a burning coal between his hearts.</p>
<p>“You would love me,” he says, “If I was sane.”</p>
<p>It <em>is</em> what she’s saying. Hearing it summarized so plainly puts an expression on her face that the Master can’t even find the energy to read. Pained realization, maybe? It’s exhausting. The Doctor is exhausting.</p>
<p>She has a point too. It’s a smart position, one he undoubtedly brought upon himself.</p>
<p>How many years has the Doctor blamed <em>insanity</em> for all the atrocities rather than the Master himself? And what sort of person does she think is hiding beneath it all? Oblivious starstruck Koschei? Himself, saving puppies?</p>
<p>And his (perceived) active <em>refusal</em> to fix his problem is what makes the Doctor finally, finally throw him away, throw <em>Koschei</em> away, deny him the right to stand by a promise so ancient and idiotic that it’s an intrinsic part of the Master.</p>
<p>At least the Doctor doesn’t try to backpedal, explain it away. Instead, she steps back, and holds out a hand, takes a deep breath. “The play should be getting to more relevant things now. Easier things, for you.”</p>
<p>Does she think someone woven from a not-quite-soul so ripped and broken it <em>bleeds</em> can really be mended all nice and neat for her comfort? He is <em>named</em> as tattered and torn, the Frayed, ready to snap. If he says, <em>yes, I’ll change,</em> does the Doctor not realize how futile it’d be?</p>
<p>If he’s sane, or if he’s at least willing to <em>try</em> to be sane, then she’ll love him.</p>
<p>Does she assume there’s some sort of magic pill for him to swallow and be better?</p>
<p>He’s so, so tired.</p>
<p>“You realize a divorce means I don’t have to follow your request,” the Master says.</p>
<p>The Doctor, ever self-centered no matter what anyone else may think, goes pale. Because no, she hadn’t realized. It hadn’t even entered her mind.</p>
<p>“Also, asking you to leave me alone wasn’t my request,” he adds, completely honest. “If I get to keep trying to kill you, you get to keep trying to save me. It’s only fair, and there <em>are</em> what pass for rules in this thing of ours. So that wasn’t my request. But <em>now,</em> well.” The Master grins. “Who knows what I’d ask for, when freedom from you is an option?”</p>
<p>Stunned into blunt idiocy, the Doctor says, “But you love me.”</p>
<p>The Master’s grin quirks into a smirk. “Yes, and has that ever stopped me before?”</p>
<p>She tries to save it, says, “No. No, Koschei, I <em>offered</em> a divorce-”</p>
<p>“Which I gladly accept,” the Master says smoothly. He says it in <em>High</em> Gallifreyan, even, because it’s a formal acceptance of the reality she offers, implying that the choice results in a timeline he is eager to join.</p>
<p>And it’s done.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Switched back to M rating because otherwise I'm increasing chapter count AGAIN.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>